Tough All Over
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Tag to 7.03 – Hurt Sam, Hurt/Worried Big Brother Dean, Awesome Bobby – A diagnosis of an epidural hematoma was not necessarily a death sentence, but it certainly did not bode well for Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Tag to 7.03 – Hurt Sam, Hurt/Worried Big Brother Dean, Awesome Bobby – A diagnosis of an epidural hematoma was not necessarily a death sentence, but it certainly did not bode well for Sam.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for 7.03 and 7.01 (actual episode dialogue quoted) and usual language

**A/N**: We get a blink-and-you-miss-it hospital scene with the boys and then flash to three weeks later like nothing ever happened? Seriously? *shakes head disapprovingly and prepares to fill in the gaps*

* * *

><p><em>You need a reason for the things I do  I need a miracle to see me through... / My hands are tied, and I've been rolling the dice / My legs are broken, and I ain't up for a fight... / My heart is aching, and I'm down on the bends / My will is weak, and I'm falling again / I'd get back up and try to make things right / If you just stay here tonight... / And you know we'll be the last ones picking up the pieces / We'll be the last ones standing up strong / We'll be the last ones fixing all the things gone wrong / As the days go by... ~ Augustana_

* * *

><p>Bobby squinted at the red flashing lights as the ambulance wailed by him in the opposite lane.<p>

"Sioux Falls General," he read from the side of the vehicle and then shook his head, wondering if whoever was inside knew they were on their way to be served on a leviathan buffet.

"Poor bastards," Bobby remarked, shaking his head again.

He really hoped Sam and Dean were already waiting for him at the house. They all needed to regroup and move their asses on this one before this particular situation got any more out of hand.

Bobby sighed, then startled when his phone chirped, alerting him to a voicemail.

He scowled in response and reached over to the passenger seat, hating it when his phone was right beside him and yet failed to ring. Given the current situation, hit-or-miss cell service could literally separate life and death, and Bobby was irritated more than usual by the inconvenience.

Grasping his phone, Bobby glanced at the caller display – not surprised to see Dean's name – and then glanced back at the road stretching out in front of him, frowning at the sudden amount of fog as he approached his driveway.

Bobby tilted his head.

No.

Not fog.

Fog did not normally have a smell.

And this...this smelled like...

"Smoke," Bobby identified just as his house came into view.

Or what was left of his house.

"Well, shit," Bobby drawled, parking behind the Impala and staring in stunned silence through the windshield at the charred, smoking remains of where he had lived for most of his adult life.

His phone chirped again, and Bobby blinked; glancing down at Dean's name still illuminated on the screen and instantly reminded of more important things than his fire-ravaged house.

"Dean!" he yelled, turning off the engine and pushing open the driver's side door. He paused, scanning the yard; eyes alert for any danger lurking in the shadows. "Sam!"

Because where one was, the other was sure to be.

And yet as the minutes passed, Bobby did not see either of them as he searched what was left of the house and surrounding property.

"Dammit," he hissed, a mixture of fear and helplessness making him pissed and causing his hands to fist at his sides; his grip tightening around the cellphone he forgot he was still holding.

Bobby sighed harshly, his breath ghosting into the cold night as he flipped open his phone and entered his password on the keypad – his late wife's birthday – and waited for his message.

"You cannot be in that crater back there," Dean's voice growled into his ear, and Bobby shook his head.

After all these years, surely Dean knew better than that.

"I can't..." Dean's voice faded, as though it was not used to saying those two words together and just stopped. Half a second passed. "If you're gone, I swear I am going to strap my 'beautiful mind' brother into the car, and I'm gonna drive us off the pier."

Bobby swallowed, knowing by Dean's tone that Dean was serious but also seeing the Impala within feet of where he was standing; testament to that plan obviously having not come to pass.

But the boys were still missing, so...

"You asked me how I was doing..." Dean's voice reminded Bobby. "Well, not good."

Bobby snorted.

Well, no shit.

"You said you'd be here," the voice said, its tone almost accusatory before pausing, and Bobby could picture the pained expression Dean had probably worn when he had said it. "Where are you?"

"Could ask you the same," Bobby commented, listening to the silence on the line and the sound of Sam's voice in the background calling his name before the message ended.

Bobby sighed, snapping his phone shut and once again scanning the yard for any signs of what had happened after his house had been burnt extra crispy.

His eyes crawled over every car within sight, and that was when he saw it – the yellowish-greenish Dodge Demon that had certainly seen better days and was no longer suspended in the air but dropped right in front of him.

"Huh," Bobby mused, coming to stand beside it and turning in a slow, tight circle; determined not to miss any detail.

The debris of the Demon smashing to the ground...the busted windshield of another car not ten feet away...the pattern of swept dirt indicating a physical struggle...and most alarmingly, the smear of blood along the ground.

Bobby crouched and squinted for a better look; his mind instantly remembering how he had squinted in the red flashing lights of the ambulance just moments earlier.

"Shit," Bobby hissed, his heart clenching in his chest at the realization that the poor bastards heading to Sioux Falls General were his boys.

* * *

><p>"Sam..." Dean called desperately, staring at his brother as the paramedic shined his penlight into Sam's eyes. "You stay with me, you hear?" he reminded, just as he used to do when Sam was a kid.<p>

_Don't run too far ahead, Sammy. You stay with me, you hear?_

Sam turned his head toward Dean's voice, eyes unfocused.

"Male, late twenties, head trauma..." the paramedic reported into his shoulder radio.

And for a split second, Dean envied the guy's detachment; to think of Sam as just another patient and not spend your every waking moment worrying about him.

What must that be like?

Dean could not imagine; did not _want_ to imagine.

If Dean worried more than he should about his little brother, who could blame him? Even after everything that had happened over the past several years, Sam was still the best thing, the most important thing in Dean's life; the only thing Dean would protect at all costs.

"Signs of increasing intracranial pressure..."

Dean blinked at the sound of the paramedic's voice.

He had seen the blood smeared down Sam's neck from his ear and beneath Sam's nose, but actually hearing the words "increasing intracranial pressure" in relation to Sam made Dean want to throw up.

Sam turned away from Dean; focusing straight in front of him, actually lifting his head and frowning as he stared at the rear doors of the ambulance.

Dean followed his brother's gaze and narrowed his eyes, as if by doing so he could see what Sam undoubtedly saw – Lucifer riding along.

_You and me...and the Devil makes three._

Dean opened his mouth to speak but paused when Sam went rigid and felt his own heart drop. Because he knew even before the monitors began blaring what was about to happen.

"Sam..."

Sam's head slammed back onto the stretcher, the thin pillow useless in cushioning the violent thrust.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, struggling against the straps across his chest that secured him to the stretcher for transport.

"Yeah, he's seizing..." the paramedic reported into his radio, and Dean felt like punching an EMT.

No shit, Sam was seizing. How about a little less talking and a little more trying to make it fucking stop!

Sam's head jerked to the right, then back to the left to face Dean; his mouth opening in what Dean perceived to be pain and panic.

Dean opened his mouth to speak again but stopped when the paramedic's voice continued.

"Copy that...we're just pulling into Sioux Falls."

Dean felt his heart plunge. "Sioux Falls?" he repeated, attention darting to Sam as his brother continued to seize beside him and then back to the EMT. "Sioux Falls General?"

The paramedic nodded, cutting his eyes at Dean as though Dean was stupid to ask that.

"No, no, no..." Dean responded, shaking his head for emphasis.

Because they could_ not_ go there; not when he was incapacitated...and Sam was unconscious...and Bobby was probably dead.

"You gotta take us somewhere else," Dean demanded, focusing back on Sam as his brother continued to writhe on the stretcher beside him and feeling panic rise within his chest.

Because Sam did not usually seize this long, which meant this was more than just a Hell-induced grand mal; this was related to head injury, and Sam needed a hospital.

Just not this one; not Sioux Falls General.

"Anywhere..." Dean pleaded. "Please!"

"Yeah okay, buddy," the paramedic responded distractedly, alternately filling a syringe and glancing at Dean like he was a mental patient.

Dean slammed his head back in frustration, pressing hard into the pillow as he closed his eyes and once again jerked against the straps that held him down.

In the next instant, Dean felt the unmistakable pinch of a needle entering his skin and cut his eyes at the only person he had last seen holding a syringe. "What the fu – "

"Just something to help you calm down and relax," the paramedic patiently explained, removing the needle from Dean's bicep and turning his attention back to Sam.

Dean glared heatedly. "You sonuva..."

But that was as far as he got before the darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

><p>Dean blinked awake to the sound of disjointed voices.<p>

"Hold him down..." a woman's voice instructed, and Dean vaguely wondered who she was talking about.

Unfamiliar faces hovered above him, blocking the glare of the lights overhead, as Dean felt pairs of hands grab his arms.

Out of instinct, he tried to pull away from their grasp, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated.

"Three...two...one...set..." was all the warning Dean got before the unmistakable sound – and jolting pain – of bone aligning with bone caused him to sit straight up, screaming.

"Nurse!" the woman's voice yelled, and Dean felt himself slammed back to the mattress as the woman continued to hold his leg and urged him to relax.

Swallowing against the throbbing, all-consuming pain, Dean struggled to sit up again, bracing on his elbows. "Where am I?"

"You're at the hospital," the woman explained, glancing at the nurse on his opposite side.

"Which one?" Dean asked urgently, following the doctor's gaze and seeing something injected into his IV line.

"Sioux Falls General."

Dean's eyes widened as remembrance sliced through the haze of lingering disorientation.

Bobby's house.

The leviathan.

The ambulance.

_Sam._

"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded, struggling to sit up once again; suddenly panicked by the realization that he had not seen Sam since he had woken up; unnerved that he did not even remember arriving at the hospital. "We gotta go."

"He bashed his head quite seriously," the doctor reported, and Dean remembered Sam seizing beside him in the ambulance. "He's gone up for an MRI."

"Okay." Dean swallowed and blinked against the pull of whatever they had administered through his IV. "I gotta go."

Had to find Sam and get the hell out of there.

The doctor huffed a laughed. "You're not going anywhere on this leg, buddy," she remarked and turned her attention back to her work.

Dean continued to blink rapidly even as he felt himself drift away; wondering how he was going to save Sam if he could not stay awake long enough to save himself.

* * *

><p>Bobby had a sense of déjà vu as he entered Sioux Falls General, dress shoes squeaking on the waxed floor as he walked down the brightly-lit corridor; long strides and an unreadable expression conveying his mission – to find what was his and get the hell out.<p>

In the time that had passed between realizing where Sam and Dean were and actually arriving at the leviathan-infested hospital, Bobby had changed into the suit he always kept stashed in the trunk of his '71 Chevelle and had devised a general plan of escape.

Details would depend on the boys' conditions – whether they were able to hole up in a motel the next state over or whether they would need to be taken to another hospital – but Bobby would sort that out later.

First things were first – find the boys.

Bobby sighed, looking from left to right at the room numbers as he continued down the hall.

His "hospital administration" badge had helped in securing information about Dean's whereabouts – it seemed everyone remembered "the good-looking guy with the open compound tibia fracture who growled and screamed a lot" – but Bobby was uneasy that no one seemed to be able to tell him about Sam.

The emergency room receptionist – real sweet girl – remembered a guy in his late twenties that had sustained head trauma and had been whisked upstairs for tests as soon as he had arrived since he had been bleeding from his ears and nose and was seizing; but she could not remember his name or if he had arrived on the same ambulance as Dean.

But Dean, he was...here.

Or at least, he was supposed to be.

Bobby nodded as he stood in front of the door and looked over his shoulder, double-checking his surroundings, before ducking into Dean's room; only to find Dean in a heap on the floor.

Bobby frowned. "You okay?"

Dean's attention darted up to him as Bobby entered, an expression of confusion and relief flashing across Dean's scruffy face. "Bobby...you're alive."

"'Course I am," Bobby responded and narrowed his eyes at the oldest Winchester sprawled in front of him. "Why are you on the floor?"

Dean blinked comically. "They gave me morphine. A lot..." he replied, as though that explained everything.

And it did.

Bobby had suspected as much from Dean's slurred tone and overall appearance. Alcohol and pretty much any other drug was nothing to Dean; Sam was the Winchester with the reputation for being a lightweight. But morphine had always been the only exception to that rule; the only drug that could knock Dean Winchester on his ass.

_Quite literally_, Bobby thought and then shook his head, reaching for the younger hunter.

Dean grasped the outstretched hand. "Hey, look...a monster broke my leg," he heard himself say as Bobby helped him up to the bed, and he really wished he could make himself shut up. He sounded like Sam after two beers – loopy and unguarded and probably two seconds away from an I-love-you-man moment.

Bobby stared at him as Dean perched on the side of the bed, blinking and trying to organize his scattered thoughts.

"The house..." Dean reached toward Bobby again before he could stop himself, having always been embarrassingly clingy when morphine was involved. "We thought you were dead."

"Well, I ain't," Bobby asserted and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Not yet," he added, because they were still in leviathan territory. "But we gotta run," he explained, turning to close the blinds behind him. "This place ain't safe."

Dean shook his head, trying to clear the ever-present fog of medication, and startled when Bobby pushed his clothes against his chest.

"Where's Sam?"

"Uh..." Dean closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

Out of all the questions in the world, that was the one that mattered most.

"Head scan, I think," he replied; the "I think" part bothering Dean more than anything; because it was Sam, and he should_ know_.

"Meet me at the ambulance dock, stat," Bobby ordered, his expression and tone gentler than usual, as if he were talking to a child – or a drugged up Winchester. "I'll find Sam."

Dean nodded at the reassurance and hardened his own expression, because this was ridiculous. It was not Bobby's job to take care of Sam; it was his, and he needed to pull it together.

But first...what did Bobby just say? Something about an ambulance dock...

"Wait, where?" Dean asked, tilting his head.

Bobby paused at the door, turning back to face Dean.

But before Bobby could answer, Dean remembered and then thought of a different problem. "Bobby, I'm a gimp."

Without missing a beat, Bobby grabbed the pair of crutches propped beside the door and crossed to the bed, setting them beside Dean.

Dean glanced at them and then back at Bobby as the older hunter cupped his jaw.

"Hey..." Bobby called, affectionately patting Dean's cheek and smiling his encouragement before turning to leave again.

Dean watched him go, feeling strangely comforted by Bobby's uncharacteristic gesture and wondering how the hell he was supposed to get dressed by himself with his leg casted up to his thigh.

* * *

><p>Bobby resisted the urge to run toward the orderly when he saw the white-clothed man coming down the hall, pushing an unconscious, floppy-haired kid.<p>

But instead, he reached for his badge, snatching it from his lapel and holding it up.

"Hold the phone there, son," Bobby ordered, lowering the badge before the orderly could get a good look and further diverting attention as he grabbed the chart from the foot of the stretcher. "Who's this?" he asked.

As if he did not already know.

Bobby's heart had practically sung Sam's name when he had first caught glimpse of him seconds before.

"Yeah, this is the guy," Bobby commented, his tone detached even as his stomach dropped when he read the scrawled bottom line of the MRI film's cover sheet.

_Results indicate the presence of an epidural hematoma in the left frontal lobe due to traumatic injury; place in ICU with ICP monitoring for next 24-48 hours; follow up CT scan; administer..._

Bobby swallowed, wanting to read more but aware that he was being watched.

The orderly shifted from where he continued to stand at the opposite end of the stretcher, staring at Bobby expectantly.

Bobby inwardly shook himself.

Now was not the time to freak out. After everything Sam had endured, it was not unreasonable to think the kid could certainly overcome a little bleeding in the brain.

Bobby just had to get him someplace where he could rest and recover; someplace where it was less likely the hospital staff would eat him alive.

Bobby sighed, resuming the role of an exasperated hospital administrator. "Coverage lapsed," he reported, tossing the chart back between Sam's blanketed feet and grabbing either side of the stretcher. "We're shipping him to County."

The orderly continued to stare in speechless indifference as Bobby passed, pushing Sam down the hall.

"C'mon, sicko..." Bobby said affectionately, using the nickname he remembered Dean using whenever Sam was sick. "Let's get you healed up someplace a little safer."

* * *

><p>Dean was getting too old for this shit.<p>

Escaping from monsters by himself while he was drugged up and crippled would have been the kind of thing his adolescent self would have bragged about for months.

But now, his 30-something self was not impressed; was exhausted and panicky and just wanted to make sure Sam was okay.

Because Sam _had_ to be okay.

Out of the haze of everything else over the past few hours, Dean clung to that hope; that the blood and the seizing and the unconsciousness were not indicative of what the paramedic had said, of what he himself had suspected – intracranial bleeding – but instead were the result of his little brother being a drama queen.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head to clear his vision and his thoughts.

He needed to focus.

Dean could see Bobby's reflection in the side mirror of one of the ambulances as he cleared the hospital's side door and set off in the direction of that vehicle.

Only a few more crutched-assisted steps, and he would be...

Dean paused, heart slamming in his chest as he noticed two hospital employees exiting the facility's rear door.

While he did not remember seeing them before now, their expressions and intense focus on the ambulance Bobby – and Sam – was in was enough to spur Dean into a faster pace.

* * *

><p>"C'mon, Dean..." Bobby growled urgently, gripping the ambulance's steering wheel anxiously; knowing Dean would want him to get Sam to safety even if it meant leaving Dean behind, but unwilling to make that decision just yet.<p>

A flicker of movement caught his attention, and Bobby's eyes widened. "Balls..." he muttered as he watched the two doctor-and-nurse-wearing leviathans start running toward the vehicle.

"C'mon, Dean!" Bobby urged again, and then once more; startling as the passenger side door was suddenly yanked open.

"Go, go, go, go, _go!_" Dean yelled, dropping his crutches to the ground and swinging into the seat, barely closing the door behind himself as Bobby put the ambulance in gear and burned rubber out of the parking lot.

* * *

><p>They were barely two seconds down the road before Dean did what Bobby expected him to – asked about Sam.<p>

And when Bobby did not answer quick enough to suit Dean, the big brother asked again.

Bobby released a long, slow breath. He had years of experience in delivering bad news to Dean, but it never got any easier.

Dean narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious at Bobby's prolonged silence. He turned awkwardly in his seat, trying to see Sam for himself but could only see the top of his brother's head at this angle. If his leg had not been casted up to his thigh, Dean would have already climbed in the back to assess Sam's condition.

"Bobby?" Dean prompted, turning back to stare at the older hunter.

Bobby sighed, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while leaning slightly forward and grabbing Sam's chart from where he had stowed it on the dash.

Wordlessly, Bobby handed it to Dean, wondering why he could not bring himself to say the words "epidural hematoma". Such a diagnosis was not necessarily a death sentence, but it certainly did not bode well for a person with a history of catastrophic head injuries.

Dean's gaze darted between the chart and Bobby, dread slowly spreading through his chest as he finally accepted the folder and scanned the first page; eyes immediately drawn to the bottom.

"No," Dean said aloud as he continued reading. "No, no, no..."

Dean shook his head, feeling as though he would choke from the knot of emotions clogging his throat.

Because this had the potential to be bad – to be _really fucking bad_ – and Dean was scared and pissed and too exhausted to fight the tears that suddenly stung his eyes at the realization that after everything, he could still lose Sam.

"Bobby..." Dean clenched his jaw, unable to continue.

Bobby nodded, never needing words anyway. "I know," he agreed and decided to risk turning on the ambulance's lights and siren as he pressed harder on the gas pedal.

* * *

><p>"What've we got?" a scrub-clad nurse asked, running out to meet the ambulance that had just arrived in the bay area outside the emergency room of Minnehaha County Memorial.<p>

"Transfer from Sioux Falls General," Bobby replied, meeting her at the rear of the vehicle.

The nurse's eyes widened as she took in the sight of him, unaccustomed to seeing ambulance drivers wearing their Sunday best.

"Um..." she muttered distractedly, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear as her gaze fell on Bobby's badge.

Since when did hospital administrators drive ambulances? And if the patient was from Sioux Falls, why was this man driving a nondescript ambulance with "Medical Response" on the side and not the facility's name?

"Hey!" Bobby barked, snapping his fingers mere inches from the nurse's face. "You hear me, or what?" he demanded, aware that the nurse – "Stacy" according to her own badge – was suspicious of him but not having time for further explanations.

Sam's condition had deteriorated rapidly during the 30-minute drive over; so much so that Dean – heedless of his own injury and exhaustion – had somehow contorted his body and had managed to crawl in the back of the ambulance to be with Sam; had then alternated between talking to his unresponsive brother and giving Bobby increasingly panicked updates as the older hunter had literally pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard.

Bobby shook his head. "We've got a critical patient here," he informed as he reached to open the double doors of the vehicle. "Head trauma."

Stacy frowned. "Head trauma?" she repeated and then glanced over her shoulder as another woman approached; the woman wearing the same light blue scrubs as Stacy, indicating that she also worked in the ER. "Head trauma transfer from Sioux Falls?"

"No," the woman – Marie – answered briskly, her blonde ponytail swaying as she shook her head and narrowed her eyes at Bobby. "Why would Sioux Falls transfer a patient like that to us, when they're the ones with a neurologist on staff?"

"Because the place ain't what it used to be, lady," Bobby replied gruffly and then indicated his badge. "I oughta know, huh?"

"Guess so," Marie agreed and exchanged glances with Stacy.

Something was definitely going on here.

But there was no time for more questions as Bobby opened the ambulance doors to reveal not one person – as the women expected – but two.

Dean sat perched on the edge of the ambulance's jump seat; right leg awkwardly angled to the side; right arm braced on his casted thigh. His left hand rested on Sam's chest, since doing so had always been his own form of checking the kid's vitals, especially in the absence of monitors.

With his hand splayed on Sam's sternum, Dean could feel his brother's heartbeat, could measure his breaths, could assess whether or not Sam had a fever.

And the news was not good on any level.

"He's getting worse," Dean blurted at the sight of Bobby framed by the double doors of the ambulance and then shifted his gaze beyond the older hunter to the two women. "Do something!"

Stacy visibly jumped at the sound of Dean's raised voice, but it was Marie who climbed into the ambulance first.

"I'm Marie," she said, as if telling him her name was a peace offering. "What's yours?"

Dean cut his eyes at her but answered. "Dean."

Marie nodded. "Hi, Dean," she responded lamely. "I'm one of the ER doctors," she further explained and then frowned at the realization that struck her now that she was inside the ambulance. "Why are there no monitors?" she asked, not meaning for her tone to be accusatory but this was ridiculous.

"Because there's nothing but freakin' monsters at Sioux Falls who would rather my brother be dead than alive, and damn near killed me, too," Dean snapped, glaring at the doctor as she approached.

Marie said nothing, yanking her stethoscope from around her neck; eyes darting from Dean's bruised cheek to his casted leg and then to Sam's bandaged forehead and pale face.

..._monsters at Sioux Falls who would rather my brother be dead than alive, and damn near killed me, too..._

_The place ain't what it used to be, lady...I oughta know, huh?_

Marie swallowed, instantly understanding as the pieces of this particular puzzle clicked into place.

What a public relations nightmare.

No wonder a hospital administrator himself was transporting the patient in a nondescript ambulance which could not be traced back to Sioux Falls General.

And no wonder the transfer was not called in as it normally would have been under other circumstances. Sioux Falls staff was probably trying to keep this particular patient – and his dangerously pissed brother – off the proverbial radar in hopes the Board never caught wind of whatever had happened.

The absence of monitoring equipment on a critical patient was testament to how quickly these two brothers had been whisked away before an undoubtedly bad situation got even worse, and Marie felt shaky just thinking about what they had endured.

The one currently watching her every move – Dean – looked scruffy and haggard, and the leg fracture he had sustained must have been quite serious to have required a cast that stretched to his thigh.

And the one lying motionless on the gurney...

"What's his name?" Marie heard herself asking, folding back the edge of the blanket that covered her patient's chest before placing her stethoscope on either side of his sternum; feeling some of her anxiety begin to disperse as she focused on her job.

Dean narrowed his eyes, and Marie got the distinct feeling that he was sizing her up; judging as to whether she was a threat and deciding if she deserved to know his brother's name.

"Sam," Dean finally responded, and Marie briefly looked up; startled by how much love and concern could be expressed in one, single-syllable word.

Marie nodded. "Sam..." she called, refocusing on her patient. "Can you open your eyes?"

Sam remained silent and still.

"Sam..." she called again, fisting her hand and briskly rubbing her knuckles against his sternum. "Open your eyes."

Nothing.

Marie sighed and glanced at Dean, wondering if he knew what a bad sign this was; if he knew that no eye opening, no verbal response, and no response to command earned Sam a Glasgow Coma Scale of three; a score usually reserved for patients in a deep coma...or who were dead.

Marie swallowed the panic that began to rise in her chest. "We need to get him inside," she stated abruptly. "_Now_."

Dean's eyes widened slightly. "Bobby..."

Bobby nodded. Although he had remained outside the ambulance to allow space for Marie to work, he had heard the doctor's words and was already pulling the stretcher towards himself.

"Stacy!" Marie yelled, glancing over her shoulder to find that Stacy was nowhere in sight.

"She went inside," Bobby reported, his voice strained from supporting the extra weight of the gurney by himself as he maneuvered it out of the ambulance.

Marie scowled; irritated a nurse would just leave her with a critical patient but paused from making a comment as she saw Stacy suddenly emerge from the ER's double doors, hurriedly pushing a wheelchair.

"For him," Stacy explained breathlessly, staring past Marie at Dean.

Marie nodded. "Good," she agreed and hopped down from the ambulance as Bobby set the stretcher on its wheels on the concrete of the bay area. "Eddie..." she called, glancing at Bobby's badge.

"No, uh...Bobby, actually..." Bobby corrected and then shrugged his apology. "Nickname."

Marie frowned in confusion. "Okay, whatever. Listen, Bobby...you got him?" she checked, indicating Dean with a tilt of her head even as she was already gripping either side of Sam's stretcher, preparing to move.

"Yeah," Bobby assured, hoisting himself up into the ambulance; holding out his hand to halt Dean's attempt to rise by himself.

Marie glanced at the nurse. "Stacy..."

Stacy nodded, joining Marie as they both pushed Sam inside the hospital.

"Hurry, Bobby!" Dean yelled, his anxiety increasing as Sam disappeared behind the double doors of the ER; recent events causing him to be even more panicked when his brother was not in direct sight.

"Calm down, boy," Bobby snapped even as his own heart slammed in his chest.

Dean ignored him; roughly grasping Bobby's offered arm and practically dragging the older hunter behind him as he hobbled toward the back of the ambulance.

Bobby shook his head and sighed; thankful the morphine still lingered in Dean's system to ward off pain as the oldest Winchester all but jumped from ambulance to the waiting wheelchair below.

"Dean..." Bobby growled warningly.

"At least I stuck the landing," Dean replied – half drugged, half smartass – and did not wait for Bobby as he grasped the wheels on either of the chair and began pushing himself toward the ER's entrance.

"Damned idjit," Bobby grumbled, jumping from the ambulance before slamming the vehicle's doors; grabbing Sam's chart from the front seat; and then running after Dean.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean forgot how loud and bright and generally disorienting emergency rooms could be – especially when you were still marginally tripping on morphine – and was more relieved than he would admit when Bobby joined him.

"Where's Sam?" Bobby asked, finally catching up with Dean; coming up behind him and taking over the pushing of the wheelchair.

Dean opened his mouth to answer but stopped when Stacy suddenly emerged from one of the side rooms; obviously looking for them as her gaze frantically scanned the hall.

"Hey..." Dean called, waving his arm.

Stacy jerked in the direction of the voice, looking slightly relieved. "In here," she said breathlessly and ducked back into the room.

Dean nodded and willed Bobby to walk faster, which must have worked.

Because in the next instant, they were there; framed by the room's doorway; watching a flurry of activity surround Sam as Marie, Stacy, and two other nurses worked together in chaotic tandem to stabilize their patient; to stabilize_ Sam_.

One of the nurses clipped a pulse oximeter on Sam's finger and then adjusted a nasal cannula under Sam's nose and over his ears, tucking back his hair as she did so.

Stacy unbuckled the straps across Sam's chest, snatching off the blanket before cutting through Sam's t-shirt; while another nurse stood beside her, immediately attaching heart monitor electrodes as soon as Sam's bare chest was exposed.

Stacy nodded her approval before glancing at the blood pressure cuff on Sam's bicep and then turning to check the corresponding monitor.

Marie carefully peeled back the bandage on Sam's forehead, frowning at the amount of bruising and swelling but confirming that Sam had sustained a closed head wound, since the skin was still intact.

The nurse that had placed the nasal cannula was inserting an IV line and paused at the sight of Sam's gauze-wrapped hand.

"Um, doctor..."

Marie glanced at the nurse expectantly and then followed her gaze to Sam's hand.

"What happened?" the nurse wondered aloud, gently removing the bloodied, dirt-caked gauze to reveal inflamed skin puckered by a dark row of stitches.

"I don't know," Marie admitted since this particular injury had been hidden under the blanket until now. "We'll find out later. Just clean it for now, so we can see if any stitches need replacing."

The nurse nodded and turned to grab supplies from the nearby cart.

"Is his brother here yet?" Marie asked distractedly, pulling a penlight from the pocket of her scrubs and alternately shining it in Sam's eyes; not surprised to see his left pupil fixed and dilated, as the bandage on Sam's head indicated his left side had taken the impact.

"Yeah," Dean answered, surprised by how quiet and shaky his voice sounded.

Marie's attention darted to the door. "You were right about his vitals," she commented, continuing her examination.

In addition to Sam's dilated pupil – classically presenting only on the side of injury – Sam also showed signs of tachycardia, which in the presence of head trauma, unless due to some other injury, was a bad prognostic sign.

Not to mention Sam's decreased respiration, which was often a result of increasing intracranial pressure; his Glasgow Coma Scale score of three; and the alarming amount of heat radiating from his body. Elevated temperature was common in cerebral injury, and Marie suddenly felt overwhelmed with how critical her patient was.

"Did they run any tests at Sioux Falls?" Marie asked, reluctant to bring up that hospital but needing to know. "Does he have a chart or anything?"

Bobby nodded, grabbing the chart from beneath his arm and wordlessly handing it to the doctor.

Marie took the folder, frowning as she leafed through its meager contents. "No medical history, no blood panels..." She shook her head disgustedly and cut her eyes at Bobby. "What kind of facility are you running over there?"

"The kind that sucks ass," Dean responded angrily.

Marie nodded in agreement. "You're free to go," she told Bobby, not caring that her tone was bitchy. "We'll take care of them from here."

"Actually..." Bobby corrected. "I'm their uncle, so I'll be staying."

"Uncle?" Marie repeated and then looked at Dean.

Dean shrugged. "It's complicated," he replied, and Marie had the feeling that description would apply to just about everything in these men's lives.

"Okay..." Marie paused, pulling herself together as she found the results of the MRI. "Let's see...epidural hematoma..." she said aloud as she continued reading and sighed harshly.

While she had suspected as much, reading the diagnosis in black-and-white only made Marie more pissed. Patients in Sam's condition had to be monitored carefully, and although she did not doubt that it was in Sam's best interest to be transferred to the county hospital, in doing so, they had potentially lost crucial time in saving his life.

"Okay," Marie sighed, forcing herself to focus; because what was done was done.

But Sam was _her_ patient now, and she was confident she could make a difference from this point onward.

"I'm ordering a CT scan," she stated, both informing Dean and Bobby and ordering the medical staff.

Stacy nodded and crossed to the phone on the far wall while the other two nurses prepared Sam for transport upstairs to radiology.

Marie watched with approval and then directed her attention back to Dean. "An MRI is fine," she allowed, "but a CT scan is better in viewing blood and bone. It will help pinpoint the exact size and location of the hematoma and also any associated skull fracture."

Dean swallowed against the urge to throw up at the phrase "skull fracture" being used in relation to Sam and managed to nod instead.

"I want a complete trauma panel, too," Marie added, since there was literally nothing more than the MRI film and cover sheet in Sam's folder.

Stacy nodded that she had heard as she and the other two nurses began to move toward the door.

Bobby grasped the wheelchair handles and pulled Dean out of the way as the nurses crossed the room's threshold, hurriedly pushing Sam down the hall toward the elevators.

Dean watched as Sam once again disappeared from his view, feeling strangely detached and aware of Bobby's worried gaze. "I'm fine," he stated flatly.

Bobby rolled his eyes, but it was Marie who verbally responded.

"You sure about that?" she asked skeptically, motioning for Bobby to bring Dean into the room and focusing on Dean's casted leg as he entered. "Looks like you had quite a break there..."

Bobby nodded. "Open compound tibia fracture," he supplied, releasing the wheelchair's handles and rolling over one of the stools from the corner.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I'm_ fine_," he growled, staring meaningfully at Bobby as the older hunter sat beside him on the stool.

Marie smiled briefly. She knew Dean's type all too well. "Fine, tough guy," she agreed. "But if you start feeling 'not fine', I'd appreciate it if you let me know. One brother is about all I can handle right now."

Bobby snorted. He knew _that_ feeling.

Dean sighed, cutting his eyes at Bobby, but nodded.

There was a beat of silence.

"Enough about me," Dean said, his tone allowing no room for argument. "What about Sam?"

"We'll know more after the CT scan and blood panels," Marie stalled, setting the chart on the side counter to take notes. "But I think you know he's in pretty bad shape."

Dean clenched his jaw; knowing "pretty bad shape" was a euphemism for "dangerously close to death" and swearing to himself they would find a way to kill every single one of those fucking leviathans.

Marie shifted under the intensity of Dean's gaze. "While we're waiting for Sam to come back, let's go over his medical history," she suggested, eager to distract the older brother; surprised that even though he was obviously exhausted and currently crippled, he still conveyed a degree of lethality.

It was fascinating and unnerving, and Marie was thankful she had not been the one to piss him off; was committed to taking the absolute best care of Sam to avoid being on Dean's shit list.

"What do you want to know?" Dean asked, his expression and tone guarded.

"Well, first things first..." Marie began. "What happened to him?"

"Some asshole monster whacked him in the head with a tire iron," Dean responded bitterly, hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair in barely restrained anger.

Bobby's expression hardened. "Them?" he asked quietly.

Dean nodded.

Marie cringed at the visual Dean's words conjured, vaguely remembering his use of the word "monster" when he had described the Sioux Falls hospital staff and wondering if there was a connection.

And although she had not originally pegged these guys to be the type who would brawl in the street with tire irons, if her past 16 years in the ER had taught her anything, it was that people were unpredictable.

"Was there a fight, or..." Marie shrugged, waiting for Dean to clarify.

"Something like that," Dean replied, his response classic evasion.

Marie nodded, knowing she would get no further explanation but needing one more detail. "Close range?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed; his gaze faraway and haunted, as though he was reliving it.

Marie glanced at Bobby and then back at Dean. "And is that how he hurt his hand? Trying to block the attack?"

Dean frowned. "No," he responded as though she should have already known that. "He fell on some glass a few weeks back."

"Well, yes," Marie agreed. "I saw the stitches, but the wound was somewhat open and actively bleeding like he had somehow reinjured it."

Dean said nothing, remembering how Sam had savagely gouged his own wound and noticing Bobby's confused expression since the older hunter had not been with them at the warehouse.

Dean cleared his throat, aware the doctor was waiting for an answer. "Yeah, something like that."

Marie resisted the urge to sigh at yet another evasive reply. "And then after the attack...Sam was unconscious?"

Dean nodded. "And he had blood coming from his nose and ears."

Marie's attention flickered from where she was writing in the chart to Dean, alarmed at that detail. "How much?"

"Enough," Dean responded, his tone sharp.

Marie nodded, having her answer. _A lot._

"But he woke up in the ambulance on the way to Sioux Falls," Dean continued, remembering Sam's unfocused gaze as his brother had turned to look at him when Dean had called his name.

"How long was he awake?" Marie asked, shuffling papers to find the MRI film.

"Not long," Dean replied. "Maybe a few seconds before he started seizing."

Marie remained quiet, eyes narrowed in concentration as she stared at the film. "Looks like Sam has a history of seizures."

Dean exchanged glances with Bobby. "What makes you say that?"

Marie held the film so that it faced the two men. "Here," she said, pointing to a mass of white in the middle of greys and blacks. "This is scar tissue, which most likely resulted from a previous brain injury. Although by the looks of this, it doesn't seem like the injury took place all that long ago...maybe a few months? And since the scar tissue is primarily in the left temporal lobe, I'm assuming Sam experiences problems with memory, too. I've just never seen scar tissue quite so linear in formation, almost like a – "

"Wall," Dean blurted, surprising himself at answering aloud and glancing again at Bobby.

Because was she serious? She could literally see the crumbled wall in Sam's head? That was what she was showing them on the MRI film – a shattered wall presenting as scar tissue in the portion of the brain responsible for memory?

Marie paused, considering Dean's description. "Yeah, I guess it does resemble a wall. It's certainly a barrier of some sort," she agreed. "And as scar tissue sometimes does, it's acting as an irritant in Sam's brain, causing the seizures. Has he sustained previous head injuries?"

Dean snorted disgustedly. "Yeah. Kinda goes with the job..."

"And what is the job?"

"That's classified," Dean responded, his expression unreadable.

Marie laughed lightly, the mystery of these brothers growing even more.

"I see," she remarked and turned her attention back to the MRI film. "Well, it seems Sam healed just fine from the previous head injury, but there was scar tissue left behind in the left temporal lobe. At first the scars were probably soft and didn't cause any trouble. But as time progressed – like I said, I'm guessing maybe a few months – they started to harden like you see here. And when they started to harden, they started interfering with the mechanics of Sam's brain – impacting neurons and so forth – which in turn led to Sam having seizures." She paused, staring meaningfully at Dean. "Am I right?"

Dean glanced again at Bobby.

Bobby held his gaze, nodding his agreement in telling the doctor the truth about this particular detail.

Dean sighed. "Yeah," he confirmed and then cleared his throat. "Yeah, you're right."

Marie nodded. "Thank you," she replied genuinely. "I know there's sometimes a stigma associated with epilepsy, but – "

Dean frowned and shook his head. "Sam doesn't have epilepsy."

"Has he had two or more seizures that were unprovoked by external stimuli?"

"Two?" Dean repeated and then laughed humorlessly. "More like two dozen, if not more. I've lost count," he confessed, remembering the numerous times over the past few months when Sam would just fall to the floor with no warning and proceed to seize for at least a minute, sometimes longer.

"That's the definition of epilepsy," Marie patiently explained. "'Two or more seizures that are unprovoked.' So, if that description fits Sam, then Sam is epileptic."

Marie paused long enough for that realization to take hold.

Dean shifted in the wheelchair and glanced at Bobby.

He had never thought of Sam as being epileptic, and judging by the expression on Bobby's face, the older hunter never had, either. They had both always assumed that Sam's seizures were a physical manifestation of a supernatural problem – a Death-erected, hell-blocking wall that had crumbled and, according to Death himself, could not be fixed or replaced.

But if there was an actual medical reason – scar tissue – and a medical diagnosis – epilepsy – then maybe Sam was not as lost to them as Dean sometimes feared; maybe there was help for his brother after all.

"What kind of seizures does Sam have?" Marie asked, flipping back to the front of the chart to continue taking notes. "Grand mal, which is what most people think of when they hear the word 'seizure' – the person on the floor, physically shaking...or petite mal, where it might just look like he's zoned out for a few seconds...or hallucinations, which..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hallucinations?" Dean cut his eyes at Bobby.

Bobby looked just as surprised as Dean and shrugged.

Marie's attention flickered between the two men. "Yes, hallucinations," she confirmed. "What about them? Does Sam have that type?"

"I didn't know hallucinations _was _a type," Dean responded, his tone sharp.

"Well..." Marie sighed. "I guess hallucinations wouldn't really be considered a _type_ of seizure so much as_ part_ of a seizure. When the hallucinations occur, we view them more as a sign of seizure activity. In fact during the seizure event, the patient may actually talk to the hallucination or otherwise interact with it in some way while also interacting with the real world. It's quite fascinating how just a few misfires in the brain can cause people to straddle the line between what's real and what's not."

"Huh," Bobby mused, remembering the way Sam had been yelling at Lucifer when Bobby had walked up on Sam at the house earlier; how Sam had also talked to Bobby, even though Bobby had gotten the unshakeable feeling that Lucifer had remained in the room.

"But although hallucinations may occur during simple partial seizures," Marie further explained, "they are differentiated from psychotic symptoms by the fact that the person is usually aware that the hallucinations are not real."

Dean shifted in the wheelchair, his leg beginning to throb in time with his heartbeat as he recalled the way Sam had looked when Dean had told him Lucifer was not real.

_He says the same thing about you. _

...which implied that Sam had been aware that one was real and one was not – either Dean or Lucifer – and had been trying to differentiate between the two.

Only Sam had seemed confused as to which was which.

But he had also seemed extremely upset by his confusion and inability to decide, which would again imply a level of awareness.

And while crazy people exhibited a lot of things, "level of awareness" was not usually on the list; they were in their world and were content to be so; could give a rat's ass about anyone else's world.

But Sam obviously wanted to be in Dean's world; had only followed Lucifer to that warehouse because he had thought he was following Dean; had instantly snapped out of the hallucination as soon as Dean had made physical – albeit painful – contact with him.

So, that meant...what? That all of this time what they had thought were hallucinations indicative of an impending psychotic break were really hallucinations indicative of seizures occurring below the surface right before their eyes?

Marie shifted from where she stood, leaning against the counter at the side of the small room. "Dean..."

Dean blinked.

"I know all of this is a little overwhelming, but we need to wrap this up. Sam will be back soon, and the more I know about his history of seizures, the better I'll be able to treat him."

Dean nodded, beginning to fully feel the pain in his leg as stress and exhaustion overpowered whatever traces of morphine were left in his system.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm fine," Dean interrupted before the older hunter spoke and then directed his attention to Marie.

"You're a liar," Marie corrected, smiling. "And as soon as we're done here, I'm giving you something for pain. But in the meantime, let's get back to my original question – what kind of seizures does Sam have?"

"Every kind you mentioned," Dean responded tiredly. "He usually has the grand mal, but we've seen him space out, too. And then over the past few weeks, he's been having hallucinations."

"Huh," Marie commented, writing in the chart.

Dean arched at eyebrow. "What?"

Marie shook her head. "Nothing. It's just unusual for a patient to have such a variety. It's not unheard of, but it's certainly not the norm."

Dean snorted. "That's Sammy," he remarked affectionately, and Bobby nodded his agreement.

"Well, if you ask me, normal is boring and entirely overrated." Marie smiled, reading over her notes. "So, does he take any medications to treat his seizures?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "They've only been happening for a few months, and we just kinda deal with them as they come and move on."

Marie nodded, not missing the way Dean looked at Bobby; feeling unexpectedly emotional at the obvious sense of solidarity they shared in their responsibility of taking care of Sam.

Because Marie could tell that Sam's condition was not a burden to them, was not something they blamed Sam for; it was just something else life had handed them, and they were coping and moving on as best they could. It was too bad all of her patients did not have such depth of love and support from their family.

Marie cleared her throat. "We'll put Sam on anticonvulsant meds as part of protocol with patients who have sustained significant head trauma. If he does well with them, we'll discuss leaving him on them. There's no point in letting him suffer multiple seizures a day – no matter what type they present as – if there's an effective way we can prevent them."

Dean nodded earnestly. "I completely agree. Sam's been through enough."

Marie paused, once again wondering about the story of these two brothers.

"I'm sure he has," she agreed softly, overwhelmed with the desire to make something finally go _right_ in these boys' lives.

Dean held her gaze, seeming to appreciate her sincerity.

A clattering of wheels against tile echoed through the hall, heralding Sam's return to the room, and Marie knew whatever moment they had just shared was over as Dean broke eye contact and turned to look over his shoulder.

In the next instant, Stacy and the other two nurses appeared in the doorway, maneuvering the stretcher into the room as Bobby stood and rolled the stool he had been sitting on back to the corner before wheeling Dean out of the gurney's path.

Dean shifted in the wheelchair, trying unsuccessfully to see Sam around the nurses. "Dammit, Bobby," he growled in frustration. "Move me closer."

"Not yet," Bobby replied, watching the nurses continue to situate the stretcher and earning himself a heated Winchester glare.

Dean muttering something under his breath was the only warning Bobby got before the wheelchair handles were snatched from his grasp as Dean gripped the wheels on either side of the seat and propelled himself forward.

Bobby shook his head, irritated but not surprised by Dean's stubbornness, and smiled his apology to Stacy who audibly gasped at being forcibly nudged out of the way by a wheelchair.

Marie laughed softly at Stacy's shocked expression and motioned for the nurse to hand over the folder containing the results from radiology.

The other two nurses exchanged glances as they busied themselves around their patient, equally amused and touched by Dean's actions; because it was obvious Dean could not care less if he had offended, irritated, or inconvenienced anyone – Sam was his priority.

With Stacy out of his way, Dean positioned the wheelchair closer to the bed and reached through the bedrail, grasping Sam's wrist and squeezing it in greeting; knowing that was all his brother needed to know he was there; knowing he could keep Sam grounded and _here_ with only his touch – just like he had done at the warehouse.

Sam remained motionless; his face pale, but his cheeks flushed; the bruise on his forehead looking even darker and more swollen than before; the monitors emitting a different cadence, indicating unstable vitals.

Dean sighed, squeezing his brother's wrist again; more for himself this time than for Sam.

There was a beat of silence.

"Well..."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the doctor's voice. "Well, what?" he asked skeptically, unsure if he liked her tone.

Marie paused, reading the results again. "This was certainly not what I was expecting."

Dean swallowed, feeling his heart drop. "What the hell does that mean?" he demanded, worry and fear making his tone harsh.

Wordlessly, Bobby crossed to the bed; his glare demanding the same.

"It means our day just got better," Marie assured, realizing how her initial statement must have sounded to an already stressed family. "A lot better," she added, coming to stand beside Dean at Sam's bedside.

Dean looked up at her, narrowing his eyes; always suspicious of good news. "How so?"

"While the MRI done at Sioux Falls suggested the presence of an epidural hematoma, the CT scan Sam just had indicates otherwise." Marie turned the film around to show the two men, pointing toward another cluster of white shadows. "On a CT, a cerebral contusion appears as an ill-defined hypodense area mixed with foci of hemorrhage, like you see here."

Bobby squinted at the image. "So, you're saying Sam has a cerebral contusion, not an epidural hematoma?"

"Yes." Marie nodded and moved her finger in a circular motion. "And there's also diffuse increased density suggesting widespread tiny hemorrhages."

Dean frowned, his hand still wrapped around Sam's wrist. "How is that good news?"

Marie smiled. "I know it doesn't sound good, but trust me...it is," she assured. "A contusion is a type of traumatic brain injury that causes bruising of the brain tissue. We usually see a fair amount of swelling but not as much bleeding. A hematoma, on the other hand, is heavy bleeding into or around the brain and often times must be treated with surgical intervention. So, given a choice between the two, a contusion is preferred because it usually is easier to treat, does not take as long to heal – only weeks or months, as opposed to months or years – and the patient bounces back quicker. Plus, there's no sign of skull fracture here."

Dean nodded his understanding of her logic. But if he was given a choice, he would choose for Sam to not have a head injury at all.

"So now what?" Bobby asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"We move him to ICU and get him settled," Marie replied, glancing at Stacy to make sure she was listening to orders. "And since swelling is still a concern, we'll be placing an intracranial pressure monitor as well as administering medication that is considered a hyperosmotic agent to help reduce brain swelling."

"And the seizures?" Dean checked, haunted by how long and hard Sam had seized in the ambulance.

"Yes," Marie agreed. "We'll also administer the anticonvulsant medications we discussed to prevent seizures – or at the very least, control them – as we wait for the swelling to decrease. We'll also be monitoring his vitals, of course, and managing the infection."

Dean frowned, eyes sweeping Sam's body before cutting to the doctor. "Infection?

Marie nodded, shuffling through the papers she held. "Sam has a fever, which is not uncommon with brain injuries. But lab results show Sam's white count is abnormally high, and I'm guessing he has an infection in that wound."

Dean followed the doctor's gaze to the opposite side of the bed where Sam's left hand was curled in such a way that the injured palm was barely visible.

But Dean knew it was there. He had seen it happen; had cleaned and stitched it; had taken care of it for weeks only to watch as Sam had applied enough pressure to rip it open again.

Dean inwardly cringed, remembering the blood oozing up from the gauze and welling around Sam's thumb as his brother had pressed hard into the center of the wound.

There had been no time for first aid between leaving the warehouse and arriving at Bobby's, so the injury had been left unattended – bleeding and dirty – and Dean was not surprised that it was now infected.

"So..." Dean sighed, gently sweeping his thumb back and forth across the underside of Sam's wrist; a comforting gesture from childhood that always resurfaced during times like this. "Just broad-spectrum antibiotics?"

Marie nodded, continuing to write her orders in Sam's chart. "Yes, that should cover our bases without adversely interacting with the other medications."

There was silence.

"Any other questions?" Marie asked, arranging the papers and handing the chart to Stacy as the nurse stood at the foot of the stretcher.

"Not right now," Dean responded, exchanging glances with Bobby as the older hunter shook his head.

"Good." Marie smiled encouragingly. "We'll get the ICP monitor placed and then move Sam to ICU for the next 24 to 48 hours. Depending on how well he responds to treatment will determine how long he stays in ICU beyond that initial timeframe. Hopefully we'll be able to move him to a regular room in a couple days, but we'll just have to wait and see. The first 24 hours will be the most critical."

Dean nodded, aware that Bobby was moving away from the bed to allow space for the nurses to work and knowing he should move as well. But he was reluctant to leave his brother's side.

Having moved to the far side of the room, Bobby cleared his throat and stared at Dean meaningfully when the oldest Winchester looked at him.

Dean sighed, giving Sam's wrist one final squeeze – _Sam...you stay with me, you hear?_ –before rolling himself away from the stretcher.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

The steady rhythm of the monitors filled the room as Dean sat beside Sam's bed, shifting in the reclining hospital chair; thankful to be out of the wheelchair and to finally have his leg elevated but still uncomfortable.

"The offer still stands for those pain meds," the nurse remarked quietly, standing on the opposite side of the bed as she recorded Sam's vitals in his chart.

"I'm fine," Dean assured, biting back a groan as he shifted again. "It's this chair that sucks."

The nurse looked up, arching an eyebrow. "You want the wheelchair back?"

"No thanks, Nurse Ratched," Dean replied dryly and then pretended to correct himself. "I mean...Norma."

Norma laughed softly as Dean smiled at her. "You're a mess," she commented fondly and shook her head, her gray hair brushing her shoulders.

These boys had been in the ICU for less than four hours – and she had interacted with only one of them since the other was unconscious – but she was already hopelessly attached.

Norma had been a nurse for over 20 years and knew how to read patients. She could tell just by looking at Sam that he was a sweetheart; was probably the kind to use his manners and really listen when someone spoke; would probably flash a blinding smile and then duck his head shyly, hiding behind that fringe of bangs that even now threatened to fall across his closed eyes.

And then there was Dean.

Norma glanced at the older brother, his hand still protectively wrapped around Sam's wrist; the way it had been since Dean had joined Sam in the ICU; Dean's grip not loosening once, even as he continuously shifted in the chair.

Norma smiled to herself.

Dean's good looks, quick wit, and dry humor could charm anyone. But it was Dean's love and fierce devotion to his brother that had won her heart and the heart of every other nurse in the unit.

Norma sighed quietly, directing her attention back to the monitors as she remembered how – foolishly – they had initially tried to separate Dean from Sam upon Sam's arrival on the floor; how security had been called and the rule of "no visitors in the ICU after 5:00" had been cited; how Dean – exhausted, in pain, and wheelchair-bound – had then proceeded to somehow stand up long enough to deliver a solid right hook to the guard's jaw.

In the seconds following, all hell had broken loose as another guard had tried to restrain Dean, leading to another physical altercation as a bearded man – later identified as the boys' uncle – had appeared out of nowhere and had cold-cocked the second guard.

Norma could still picture the second security guard sprawled on the floor – poor bastard – and remembered being unexpectedly touched when the uncle had asked his nephew if he was okay.

Dean had nodded, even though his face had been lined with pain, and had opened his mouth to speak when hell of a different variety had broken loose.

In the midst of the excitement in the hall, Sam had been left unattended; a negligence that had revealed itself when the monitors had started blaring.

Dean's attention had instantly focused on his brother's room, all else forgotten as he had steered his wheelchair in that direction.

Sam's nurse – an annoying little twit who Norma had always suspected worked in the ICU for the drama factor instead of the patients – had frozen in the doorway, either too overwhelmed or too stupid – the latter being Norma's vote – to respond to a crashing patient.

Years of training had taken over, and Norma had found herself crossing the hall to Sam's room before she had even realized what she was doing.

"Move!" Norma had yelled at the nurse at the exact moment as Dean, and the bearded man had wasted no time in grabbing the twit by both shoulders and shoving her aside.

Norma smiled, remembering the expression on the other nurse's face, and then instantly sobered as she remembered the ensuing chaos.

Sam's heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure had skyrocketed, causing his intracranial pressure to do the same, and Norma had been turning to yell into the hall for assistance from another nurse when Dean had suddenly appeared at his brother's bedside.

"Hey. Easy, Sammy..." he had soothed, reaching his hand through the bedrail and grasping Sam's wrist. "It's okay. You're okay. Calm down."

Norma had paused, noticing the immediate change in the cadence of the monitors.

Dean had noticed too and had nodded his reassurance to her even as he had continued to speak to his brother in a hushed, gentle tone that she had not expected from a guy who had punched a security guard in the face seconds before.

Norma had stood motionless, marveling at how Sam's vitals had returned to baseline with nothing more than his brother's touch; watching as Dean's thumb had rubbed back and forth over Sam's wrist in silent comfort long after the crisis had passed.

"That's better," Dean had praised his brother after several minutes and then had glanced at Norma. "He's always been a drama queen," he had told her, his words sarcastic but his tone affectionate.

Norma had frowned. "Why was he upset?"

"Because of what happened out there," Dean had informed and then had shaken his head. "But it's alright now. Right, Sammy?"

Norma had felt her heart twinge with joy at Dean's repeated use of that nickname and had startled when another voice had broken the silence.

"Everything good in here?" the bearded man – their uncle – had asked, framed by the door.

"Yeah," Dean had assured and then had nodded toward the hall. "How 'bout out there?"

The bearded man had smiled. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

Dean had chuckled approvingly and then had directed his attention back to Sam.

There had been a beat of silence.

"You sure you two are good?" the bearded man had asked, still lingering in the doorway.

"Yeah," Dean had replied and then had glanced over his shoulder. "We'll be fine. Go do what you need to do," he had urged his uncle. "We've got..." he had paused, looking at Norma's badge. "We've got Norma to take care of us, so go."

Norma had remained silent, stunned but pleased by the turn of events as she had realized that by making Sam a priority, she had found instant favor with Dean.

The bearded man had snorted and had shaken his head, directing his attention to Norma. "Good luck," he had wished her, his fondness for his nephews shining in his eyes, and then had turned to leave.

In the hours that had passed since then, Dean had been granted permission to stay with Sam in the ICU – not because he had already proven anything less would result in violence but because Sam inarguably benefited from his presence – and had been moved from the wheelchair to the reclining chair he now occupied.

Norma glanced at Dean as he once again shifted. "You sure about those pain meds?" she asked, her nurse's instinct wanting to soothe his obvious discomfort.

"I'm sure," Dean replied and smiled his appreciation for her concern but gave her a look that indicated he would not so politely respond if she asked him again.

Norma nodded, knowing this type of big brother; the kind that was always on alert and could not afford to be even slightly sedated when watching over the vulnerable youngest.

"Well," she sighed, checking the monitors one last time before exiting the room. "If you change your mind – or if anything changes with Sam – you know where to find me."

Dean nodded and watched her leave.

Sinking back into the chair as the door closed, Dean briefly shut his eyes against the throbbing pain in his leg and then blinked rapidly as the pull of exhaustion threatened to overtake him; because he could not allow himself to give in to either weakness...not yet.

Maybe when Bobby came back or maybe when the first 24 hours had passed and Sam was not as critical, but not now.

Dean sighed, squeezing Sam's right wrist as he gave his brother a visual once-over; checking the kid's injured hand and bruised forehead before glancing above the bed.

Dean's gaze tracked the various IV lines to their respective origins, bags filled with solutions to battle infection and dehydration, while other lines and wires led to other equipment – the arterial line inserted into Sam's left wrist connected to its own monitor; the pulse oximeter also connected to a monitor; the small, round electrodes on Sam's chest connected to the cardiac monitor; and the intracranial pressure monitor...

"How's he doin'?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder as the uncharacteristically soft voice drifted into the stillness of the room and swallowed a groan as the turning movement jarred his casted leg.

Bobby stood in the doorway; no longer wearing his suit but changed into his regular clothes, complete with grungy hat.

Dean smiled, feeling strangely soothed at seeing the older hunter standing there and vaguely wondering where Bobby kept his stash of clothes. If a man's house burned down, did it not stand to reason that his wardrobe options would be limited?

And yet Bobby had carried on in all respects as though nothing had happened; had managed to escape death in a burning house by simply running late in his drive home and had barely missed a beat since then; had remained the one constant in their life, and Dean was immensely grateful for that.

"Dean..." Bobby prompted and saw the oldest Winchester blink from his thoughts. "How's he doin'?"

"He's hangin' in there," Dean reported proudly, squeezing Sam's wrist.

Bobby nodded, offering a small smile as he continued to lean in the doorway. "Good to hear." He paused, sizing Dean up. "And you?"

Dean shrugged.

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

Bobby snorted, coming into the room and dragging a rolling stool from the corner to the other side of Sam's bed. "I'm gonna have to call bullshit on that one," he replied, sitting.

Dean chuckled but did not dispute the call, choosing to the change the subject instead. "You sure you're allowed in here?" he teased. "Visiting hours are over, you know."

Bobby made a dismissive sound. "They don't want none of this," he answered, indicating himself.

Dean laughed, the statement made funnier in light of what had happened earlier with the security guards in the hall.

Bobby quirked a smile and shook his head, wondering if the two idjits across from him had any idea how much he loved them; how much he had come to view them as his sons; how relieved he was they were both still alive and how he would do anything to make sure they stayed that way.

Bobby sighed, focusing his attention on Sam.

The kid's pale face was predictably turned toward Dean, but the profile view only made the bruised, swollen knot on his forehead more prominent.

Bobby narrowed his eyes, glancing at the jagged, inflamed wound across Sam's palm as the kid's left hand rested on the mattress; remembering how Dean had briefly explained in the waiting room about what had happened in the warehouse that had led to the reinjured hand.

But except for seeing evidence of Dean's broken leg and hearing Dean's explanation to the doctor in the emergency room about what had happened to Sam – _some asshole monster whacked him in the head with a tire iron_ – Bobby was clueless about what had transpired at his house; specifically, what had triggered a certain voicemail.

"So..." Bobby began, attracting Dean's attention. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Talk about what?"

"Your plans to take out yourself and your 'beautiful mind' brother like Thelma and Louise," Bobby replied dryly, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for an answer.

Dean said nothing, shifting in the chair; suddenly uncomfortable for a reason other than his throbbing leg.

An awkward silence stretched between the hunters.

Bobby sighed, wondering if Dean really thought this strategy of avoidance would work with him. "Dean..."

"That was a private conversation, Bobby," Dean informed, his tone implying he was offended; that Bobby had been out of line in listening to his own voicemail.

Bobby arched an eyebrow, unfazed by Dean's sharp tone; knowing from experience there was a process to getting the truth out of Dean Winchester. Only Sam knew how to occasionally bypass Dean's defense mechanisms – primarily avoidance and anger – but the rest of the world had to endure the tedious steps.

Bobby remained silent, waiting for Dean to continue; knowing why Dean had said what he did on his voicemail – because he had thought Bobby was dead and would never hear the message – but still wanting to hear Dean's explanation.

Dean kept his gaze focused on the monitors as though not looking at Bobby would somehow make the older hunter – and the issue at hand – disappear.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and half an hour had passed before Dean spoke.

"When we got back to your place and saw the house..." Dean shook his head and laughed humorlessly. "I thought you were dead, Bobby. I thought that was it...that you were gone, and me and Sam were alone...like losing Dad all over again, only worse somehow."

Bobby swallowed against the unexpected emotion that lodged in his throat. "And driving off a pier was your solution?" he asked, having been disturbed more than he would admit at the idea of Dean committing suicide and taking Sam with him.

Dean sighed, his free hand rubbing down his face. "I'm tired, Bobby," he confessed quietly. "Tired of losing people I care about."

Dean's gaze flickered to the older hunter, indicating Bobby was in that category.

"Tired of people I love getting hurt."

Dean's attention refocused on Sam; his brother beaten and broken in so many ways.

"And I'm tired of fighting battles that can't be won, battles that might end up costing me the one thing I can't lose."

Dean affectionately squeezed Sam's wrist.

_That means you, little brother._

Dean sighed.

"I'm just tired, Bobby. And when I thought you were dead, when I thought we had to keep fighting and keep living this crap life without you to help carry the load..." Dean shook his head. "I was just done."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully in the silence that followed.

Dean had said nothing the older hunter had not expected him to say, but hearing Dean's confession only strengthened Bobby's determination to set the oldest Winchester right about a few things.

Bobby blew out a long, slow breath. "You know, Dean...I get it." He nodded, emphasizing his words. "I really do. The hunter's life sucks, and we've seen so much crap over the years that it's a wonder we're not all bat-shit crazy."

Dean snorted at the truth of that statement and thought of all the hunters he had crossed paths with over the years that _were_ bat-shit crazy.

Bobby paused. "I've come close to ending my own misery a few times, so I'm not judging you. But you listen to me..."

Dean shifted his attention to Bobby as the older hunter rolled the stool closer to Sam's bed and leaned against the bedrail.

"You don't get to check out on me," Bobby warned, the intensity of his emotions on this topic making his tone sharp. "You and Sam...you're all I've got. You're the closest thing I've ever had to sons, and even if I drop dead tomorrow, you are not allowed to give up. You understand?"

Dean held Bobby's gaze, absorbing the depth of meaning in the older hunter's words before slowly nodding. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I understand."

"Good," Bobby praised gruffly. "'Cause I don't want to hear you talk like that again. And if I get the sense you're even _thinking_ like that, I will kick your crippled ass."

Dean snorted. "Bring it, old man," he teased good-naturedly, feeling inexplicably soothed and revived by Bobby's tough love.

Bobby quirked a smile, recognizing the taunt for the affection it was, and pushed away from leaning over Sam's bed.

Dean's own smile lingered, and he shifted in the chair as a companionable silence settled between them.

"What's the latest with Sam?" Bobby asked after several minutes of watching as Dean alternately scanned the monitors and looked at his brother. "Any repeats of what happened earlier?"

"No," Dean replied, clearly relieved. "He still has a fever, but there's been no spike in vitals, no seizures, no nothing. He's been just like this ever since you left."

Bobby nodded. "Folks with brain injuries usually sleep a lot."

"That's what they keep saying," Dean reported. "But I sure wish he would wake up. Just for a minute, you know? Just so I can make sure he's okay."

Bobby smiled, always touched when the boys openly showed concern for each other. "Yeah, I know," he agreed. "Just give him time. You know Sam don't like to be rushed."

Dean laughed. "Yeah. But I'm not sure I can wait 24 to 48 hours for him to wake up."

Bobby said nothing, knowing Dean would wait as long as it took; would continue to sacrifice his own comfort – crappy chair, no pain meds, no sleep – to stay by his brother's side until Sam regained consciousness.

But still, what Bobby was about to say was worth a try.

"You know..." he began casually. "I've got a motel room about two blocks away."

Dean cut his eyes at the older hunter, instantly aware of what Bobby was hinting. "Good for you," he replied laconically.

Bobby smiled at the expected reaction. "Just sayin'."

Dean nodded. "I know. And I appreciate the offer," he responded sincerely. "But I can't leave Sam."

"I know," Bobby agreed. "But maybe later, after Sam wakes up? I could keep an eye on the kid while you go grab a shower, some food, and some sleep."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe."

Bobby nodded, allowing the issue to drop; deciding he would broach the topic again later; knowing Dean would not respond so politely if he was asked a second time right now.

The silence that once again settled was punctuated by the steady rhythm of the monitors.

"So besides getting a room and changing clothes, what else did you do while you were gone?" Dean asked, stretching his legs out in front of him as he repositioned himself in the reclining chair; wincing at the sore, tight muscles in his lower back.

"Made a few phone calls," Bobby reported, shifting on the stool as he continued to sit on the opposite side of Sam's bed. "As you would expect, Sioux Falls General still has leviathans on staff. But as you would probably _not _expect, they don't seem to care much about finding us."

Dean arched an eyebrow, unconsciously rubbing his thumb back and forth over Sam's wrist. "What makes you say that?"

Bobby shrugged. "As far as I can tell, it doesn't seem like they're actively looking for us. There's none of the usual signs that we're being tracked."

"Huh," Dean mused, glancing at Sam. "What about that one we killed back at your place?"

Bobby's eyes widened. "You killed one? How?"

"Dropped a car on its ass," Dean declared proudly. "You didn't see the black ooze coming from under that Dodge Demon?"

Bobby shook his head. "I saw the Demon, but no ooze and no body. Are you sure it was dead?"

Dean seemed to pale. "Well...no. I mean, it had torched your house and then broke my leg and whacked Sam in the head, so I was kinda too busy to double-check. But I saw the black ooze, Bobby. It was dead."

"Well, maybe it _was_," Bobby allowed. "But it ain't no more."

"Dammit!" Dean spat and sighed harshly, his leg beginning to ache more intensely as his own blood pressure rose.

"Did the paramedics mention it when they came to pick you up?" Bobby asked, believing Dean but still wondering why EMTs would ignore a motionless body in the yard.

"No," Dean answered, shaking his head. "After I called 911, I crawled over and used that tire iron to push its hand up under the car. And when the EMT asked about the black ooze, I just told him it was motor oil."

"Huh," Bobby commented. "Good thinking."

Dean smiled briefly at the praise. "Yeah, thanks. But if it's not really dead, then now what?"

"I don't know," Bobby admitted. "I guess we wait for Sam to come around and then get the hell out of Dodge, just in case..."

"And go where?" Dean demanded. "Your house is toast, and the motels we usually stay in are crap. Sam's gonna need somewhere safe and clean and quiet to rest up and recover, Bobby."

"I know," Bobby agreed. "That's why we're going to Whitefish, Montana."

Dean scowled. "Whitefish, Montana," he repeated. "Where the hell is that?"

"In Montana," Bobby replied dryly and rolled his eyes.

Dean glared.

Bobby chuckled. "Relax, Dean," he soothed, wondering if Dean realized his grip had tightened around Sam's wrist. "We're going to Rufus's old cabin. Plenty safe, plenty quiet, plenty of space for all of us to rest, recover, and regroup."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know Rufus had a cabin."

"Well, he did...does...whatever." Bobby shrugged. "And as soon as Sam is able, we're headin' that way."

"How far away is it?"

Bobby shrugged again. "Eighteen hours or so."

Dean stared at him.

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Problem, princess?"

"Yeah, a big-ass problem," Dean corrected sharply, waving his hand between himself and Sam. "How the hell do you think we're gonna travel 18 hours in a freakin' car, Bobby?"

"We're not going in a car, you damned idjit," Bobby snapped. "Give me a little credit here."

There was silence.

"Fine," Dean evenly replied. "Sorry," he added, knowing pain, stress, and exhaustion were making him crankier than usual. "How _are _we getting there? And please don't say flying."

Bobby chuckled. "No, not flying. RVing."

"RVing?" Dean repeated. "What the hell is that? A _Star Wars_ reference or something?"

"Hardly," Bobby replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. "It means I've borrowed an RV from a friend of a friend; so Sam can lie down, you can stretch out, and I can drive in peace. Plus, I can tow my car behind it, which will be one less thing to worry about picking up later."

"Wow," Dean remarked, not knowing what else to say; sometimes still stunned by how Bobby literally thought of everything. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Bobby confirmed. "It's gassed up, stocked up, and ready to roll as soon as Sam is."

"Wow," Dean said again. "That's awesome."

"Awesome like me," Bobby commented and then smiled at his own wit.

Dean grinned, unable to dispute Bobby's claim, and felt a sense of relief that their plan was coming together; that perhaps there was finally light at the end of the proverbial tunnel that would not turn out to be a train.

Dean sighed and glanced at his brother.

Now if Sam would just wake up...

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	4. Chapter 4

Voices whispered around him, the words buried beneath a fog created by injury and made worse by medication.

The tones were distorted – sometimes clear and close, sometimes far and faded – but always with him; hovering in the distance; pressing ever closer to his consciousness until Sam could no longer ignore them.

Dean sighed, watching as Bobby left the room on a much-needed coffee run, and sank back into the chair; closing his eyes as he took a brief break from talking.

Dean had always done that – talked incessantly about anything and nothing – when Sam was sick or injured, scared or upset, and Dean wondered if it made a difference now; if Sam could hear him; if Sam would follow his voice.

Dean hoped so.

Because they had been in the ICU for close to 12 hours now; and while Dean was thankful Sam's vitals had remained stable and his brother seemed to be resting peacefully, he was also beyond ready to see some indication that Sam would wake up.

Because Sam _had_ to wake up.

"You hear me?" Dean asked, as if he had made the statement aloud. "You have to wake up, Sammy."

A command, a wish, a prayer...for whatever that was worth these days.

Dean clenched his jaw, unexpectedly thinking of Castiel and how easily this situation could be fixed if the angel was still around; how Cas could instantly heal with just a touch.

But that was an option no longer at their disposal.

Because Cas was gone.

And as much as it sucked, Dean needed to let him go.

Dean sighed, opening his eyes as one of the monitors began to beep a different rhythm; his gaze scanning the screens out of habit and then double-checking them when they all showed elevated numbers.

Dean frowned and leaned forward, squeezing his brother's wrist as it still remained in his grasp. "Sammy..."

Sam's heart rate and respiration marginally increased at the sound of Dean's voice, and Dean was unsure what that meant. He had been talking to Sam for hours, and Sam's vitals had held steady. But now they were spiking?

"What's going on in there, Sam?" Dean asked and reached for the call button; his thumb pushing down on the switch two seconds before he noticed it – a soft flutter of motion beneath the sheet as Sam moved restlessly; consciousness beginning to communicate itself.

Dean blinked, wondering if he had reached the level of exhaustion where he started seeing things, or if what he had just witnessed had really happened.

Had Sam just moved?

And if he had, did that mean he was waking up?

Or was it some kind of random, involuntary reaction?

Dean held his breath, releasing it on one word. "Sammy..."

Sam shifted again, his wrist twitching in Dean's grasp as he moved his head weakly in the direction of Dean's voice.

"Whoa, Sam," Dean warned, leaning forward from where he sat to place his palm on Sam's warm forehead; gently restraining further movement as the intracranial pressure monitor began to blare. "Easy, huh? Waking up is not a race."

...which was strange to say, since Sam waking up was all Dean had wanted since he had seen his brother seize and lose consciousness in the ambulance.

But the fear that Sam waking up too quickly could somehow cause further damage instantly changed Dean's mind.

"You rang?" Norma asked teasingly as she entered the room and then sobered immediately at the scene in front of her – Sam weakly writhing on the bed as the monitors sounded their warning.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Norma's voice; his body twisted awkwardly in the chair; his casted leg stretched out in front of him as he leaned over his brother, still holding Sam's wrist but now also holding Sam's head.

Norma felt her stomach clench as she crossed to the bed; her mind thinking "seizure" before she realized Sam's movements, though uncoordinated, were purposeful. He was not rigid; was not jerking or twitching. He was simply waking up.

Norma blew out a breath she was unaware of holding, feeling lightheaded with relief. "It's okay," she assured as Dean continued to stare at her.

Dean shook his head. "The monitors..."

"I know. But it's okay," Norma repeated calmly, scanning the screens. "This is normal. He'll even out once he's awake and oriented. Just give him a minute."

Dean nodded, his heart slamming in his chest; simultaneously willing Sam to hurry but to also take his time.

Seconds passed – feeling like hours – before pale eyelids fluttered open.

Dean grinned at the sight. "Hey ya, Sammy..."

Sam blinked drowsily, a thick glaze coating his hazel eyes; his left pupil still dilated from the injury sustained on that side, masking the rim of color on the iris and blurring the images around him.

Sam shook his head weakly as if doing so would clear his vision and winced as pain flared; wrinkling his nose and continuing to blink owlishly as he shifted minutely on the bed, overwhelmed by sensations.

Dean waited patiently, his callused palm still resting on Sam's forehead as his thumb soothingly rubbed back and forth; mindful of the various ICP monitor leads and of the swollen bruise still marring his brother's fever-warm skin.

Sam swallowed thickly; his gaze roaming the room though his attention was turned inward as he slowly became more aware.

_Hospital_, he thought as he felt the invading pressure of a Foley catheter, the pinch of an IV; a clip on his finger that did not hurt but was uncomfortable; sticky, itchy electrodes pressed to his chest with wires leading to monitors beside the bed.

The tubing of a nasal cannula wrapped around his ears and stretched across his cheeks; the steady flow of oxygen simultaneously cold and warm as it flowed up his nose.

And then there was the unrelenting pain in his head; the deafening rush of blood in his ears as his heartbeat throbbed across his forehead and in his temples.

Sam's eyes dipped closed, exhausted and desperate to escape the pain and confusion of being awake.

"Sam..." Dean called again, knowing Sam was drifting and overwhelmed with the need to ground his brother; to call Sam back before he slipped away again. "Sammy. Look at me."

It took a few seconds, but Sam did as he was told; his eyes opening to slits and wandering the room until they focused on Dean.

Dean smiled. "That's better," he praised, thumbing a strand of hair from Sam's eyes when his brother blinked at the irritation.

Sam stared at the hazy figure above him, recognizing the voice; feeling a familiar touch on his forehead as his bangs were swept aside.

"Sam..."

Sam blinked again, seeming startled as an unfamiliar voice spoke.

Dean frowned at Sam's reaction and cut his eyes at Norma.

Norma smiled her apology but continued, needing to assess her patient's level of consciousness. "Sam, do you know where you are?"

Sam closed his eyes as he considered the question. Because _where_ he was never mattered to him as much as _who_ was with him. And he knew exactly who was with him; who had probably been with him this entire time...however long that was.

"D'n..."

It was slurred and barely audible, rasped out by a hoarse voice; but it was still one of the best things Dean had heard in a long time.

Norma shook her head, then arched an eyebrow as Dean smiled. "You know he answered incorrectly..." she whispered.

Dean's smile widened. "Sam wasn't answering your question," he informed quietly, knowing his brother's exact train of thought. "He was answering his own."

Norma frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head, knowing she would not understand that in their world, "who" was often more important than "where."

"Where" usually changed on a daily basis for them; but "who" was their one constant.

And as long as one brother had the other, "where" – and any other detail – would be dealt with later...together.

"D'n..." Sam called again, opening his eyes as his legs moved restlessly beneath the sheet.

"Easy, Sammy. It's okay," Dean reassured, gently squeezing his brother's wrist. "I'm right here."

Sam immediately stilled, a ghost of a smile flickering on his lips as his eyes once again dipped closed; his breaths evening out in sleep.

Norma pressed her hand to her chest as she felt her heart twinge and tears sting her eyes.

"You boys..." she commented fondly and then shook her head as words failed her in describing the moment she had just witnessed.

Because it seemed no matter how old they got, little brothers just wanted their big brothers nearby, especially when they were unwell; and big brothers...

Norma glanced at Dean as he continued to watch Sam.

Big brothers were just awesome.

"How's his numbers?" Dean asked, aware that Norma was staring at him but more interested in the changed cadence of the monitors.

Norma glanced at the screens. "They're leveling out just fine."

Dean nodded his approval. "Atta boy, Sammy," he murmured, affectionately carding his fingers through Sam's hair before leaning back; wincing at the pull of tight muscles as he repositioned himself in the chair.

"How's the leg?" Norma checked, noticing Dean's grimace of pain.

"Still broke," Dean replied dryly and once again shifted in his seat.

Norma quirked a smile, thinking how she should probably be annoyed, not amused, by such a smartass answer. "Any chance of you taking those pain meds, now that Sam has woke up?"

Dean chuckled. "Boy, you push drugs like Girl Scouts push those damn cookies," he remarked and shook his head.

Norma laughed. "Just doing my job, hun."

"I know," Dean agreed and then focused on Sam. "But so am I," he reminded, glancing back at Norma to make his point.

Norma nodded, receiving the message – that as long as Dean was _on_ watch, he was _off_ meds – and wondered if Sam knew how lucky he was to have Dean; if the brothers knew how lucky they were to have each other.

Norma sighed. "I'll be right back," she promised, ducking into the hall to grab Sam's chart and then reentering the room seconds later; recording vitals and other notes as the rhythm of the monitors punctuated the silence; startling when Dean spoke.

"It's a good sign, right?"

Norma paused in her writing. "What? That Sam woke up?"

"Yeah. I mean..." Dean shrugged. "It wasn't very long, but – "

"But it was still a good sign," Norma reassured. "A _very_ good sign."

"What was?" Bobby asked, entering the room with a cup of coffee in each hand.

"Sam woke up all by himself," Dean reported, his tone equal parts excited and proud.

Bobby smiled and nodded approvingly as he handed one of the Styrofoam cups to Dean and then directed his attention to Norma on the opposite side of the bed.

"He answer all your questions correctly?" Bobby checked, knowing how such things worked with head injuries; how nurses wanted their patients "oriented x3".

"Well..." Norma sighed, not quite sure how to respond; watching as Dean practically drained his cup in one gulp. "He didn't answer my question, but I think he knew where he was."

"Of course he did," Dean confirmed. "And he knew who I was," he added, as though that detail was all that mattered.

And Norma supposed Dean was right; everything else would undoubtedly come later.

Bobby stood beside Dean's chair, taking a sip of coffee before he spoke. "Did he seem okay?"

Dean shrugged, glancing at Sam. "Kinda like he is after a seizure."

Bobby nodded, considering what that description implied – a disoriented, groggy, sleepy Sam.

"That's completely normal with head injury patients," Norma reassured. "Everything up until now has been completely normal. But I'm still a little stunned with how far ahead of schedule Sam has woken up."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Ahead of schedule?"

Norma nodded. "To have been admitted with a GCS of three less than 24 hours ago and now..."

Her voice trailed off as she shook her head at the wonder of Sam's progress.

"What?"

Norma smiled at Bobby and then glanced at Dean as the older brother's expression demanded the same. "Sam is doing remarkably well. His vitals have been holding relatively steady, he's had no signs of seizures...then waking up on his own...speaking, responding to commands...just amazing, especially given how little time has passed."

Bobby snorted. "I think our idea of time differs."

Norma's smile widened. "Trust me," she urged. "Sam's making excellent progress."

Dean nodded, looking relieved as he affectionately squeezed Sam's wrist. "I taught him everything he knows."

Norma laughed lightly. "I'm sure you did," she replied, her tone sincere; having seen enough of these brothers to recognize the truth in that statement.

Dean smiled warmly in her direction, holding her gaze before focusing back on Sam and settling in to continue his vigil.

* * *

><p><em>ICP = Intracranial Pressure<em>

_GCS = Glasgow Coma Scale_

_**TBC = To be continued... :)**_


	5. Chapter 5

"I still just can't believe it," Norma was saying two days later as she stood in the hall of the ICU and handed Sam's discharge papers to Bobby. "Honestly, after the injury he sustained, Sam should not even be alive."

Bobby nodded, half listening.

"But to not only be alive..." Norma continued. "...but to also be completely healed in less than 72 hours – not a trace of the cerebral contusion on his last CT scan – is nothing short of a miracle."

Bobby smiled politely, even though he was well beyond believing in miracles and even as his attention was beyond the nurse; watching as Dean balanced on one crutch while helping Sam pull one of his hoodies over his head.

Bobby sighed, remembering how this departure had started out as a group effort – Norma disconnecting all of the medical equipment from Sam; Bobby carefully helping the kid sit up; Dean holding his brother steady as Norma dressed Sam's lower half in socks and loose-fitting scrub pants while Bobby maneuvered the wheelchair closer to the bed.

But then without warning, Dean had reverted to one of his default settings – taking care of Sam by himself – and had suggested Norma prepare the discharge paperwork in the hall and then had insisted Bobby join her.

Bobby had arched an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Dean had nodded, leaning on his crutch and reaching toward the chair for the hoodie they had brought for Sam.

Sam had leaned into Dean's continued grasp on his bicep as his gaze had wandered lazily from Bobby to Norma and then back to Dean; seeming not to care who left as long as Dean stayed.

Dean had smiled encouragingly as his brother had stared at him and then had glanced over his shoulder. "Seriously. I've got this. Go."

Norma had hesitated. "You know, both of you are still unsteady. Maybe – "

"No," Dean had interrupted adamantly and then had turned back to Sam.

End of discussion.

Norma had still seemed unsure and had glanced at Bobby for direction.

And Bobby had chuckled.

Because although it had been years since Bobby had heard the tone Dean had just hurled at them, Bobby had instantly recognized it as the one Dean used when he was done sharing – as in this case, done sharing Sam.

"Fine," Bobby had agreed easily, having learned two lessons long ago: to not try to understand Winchester mood swings and to not challenge Dean when it came to Sam.

Bobby had motioned for Norma to exit the room, smiling his apology to the bewildered nurse as she had left.

There had been a beat of silence.

"We'll be in the hall," Bobby had informed needlessly and had waited for Dean's nod of acknowledgement as the older brother had begun to carefully maneuver his kid brother into the hoodie.

And now, ten minutes later, it seemed Dean had almost accomplished the task.

Not that Sam seemed to mind the slow progress as he continuously blinked, trying to stay awake.

Bobby smiled and shook his head fondly.

Norma frowned as she realized Bobby's focus and turned to look behind her.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked quietly, attempting to help guide his arms through the hoodie's sleeves.

"Rufus's cabin," Dean informed, carefully pulling the left sleeve's cuff over Sam's injured hand. "Remember?"

Sam frowned, then winced at the pain the expression caused across his forehead. "We've been before?"

Dean shook his head, adjusting the other sleeve over Sam's wrist. "No. I've just _told_ you before. This is the third time you've asked me, Sammy."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Sorry."

Dean smiled, feeling surprisingly patient. Because for now, as long as Sam was awake and talking, Dean would answer the same question however many times Sam asked.

"Sorry," Sam said again, staring at Dean as though he expected a response.

Dean shook his head. "It's okay, Sammy. Even though they say you're all healed, you still took a tire iron to the forehead. So I say you're entitled to forget things for a while."

"Guess so," Sam agreed and then sighed. "M'tired."

Dean frowned, noticing the sudden slur in Sam's speech; hoping it was just an indication of his brother's fatigue and not something else.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know. You're probably gonna be tired for a while, too." He smoothed the front of the hoodie over Sam's chest. "But you can sleep in the RV on the way to the cabin, and then you can sleep at the cabin for as long as you want. We've just gotta get you from here...to there...to there. Right?"

Sam hummed his agreement, his expression vaguely changing.

Dean narrowed his eyes, feeling slightly alarmed. Because he had seen that look before and knew exactly what was coming.

"Sam..." he called, attempting to head off the seizure; the "petite mal" seizure, as he now knew it. "Sammy..."

But it was too late.

Sam did not respond, gone to wherever he went when he stared unblinkingly past Dean and into the distance.

"Well, that was quick," Dean commented, feeling a strange mix of calm and panic as he continued readying Sam to depart as if nothing was happening.

Because, like it or not, this was part of their life now.

And no matter how much it freaked Dean out, he would deal with it.

Because this – the seizures, the hallucinations, the diagnosis of epilepsy – was part of Sam.

And Sam was part of Dean.

Dean sighed, reaching for Sam's left hand to pull the hoodie's sleeve further up his brother's wrist and away from the still-healing wound; his thumb accidently pressing into the tender flesh as he did so, causing Sam to immediately jerk.

Dean frowned, attention instantly focused on his brother's face. "Sam?"

Sam blinked rapidly, right hand rubbing over left.

Dean's gaze flickered to Sam's hand; remembering how he had pressed into the wound at that warehouse; how the pain had grounded his brother in reality and had successfully broken the hypnosis of the hallucination when nothing else could.

Dean looked back at Sam as his brother continued to blink, trying to orient himself.

Was that what just happened now? Had Dean somehow found the answer of how to not only free Sam from his hallucinations but to also snap him out of these lights-on-but-no-one-home seizures?

Dean narrowed his eyes. He would have to try that theory again later.

"D'n..."

Dean smiled at Sam's slurred voice, always inexplicably happy and relieved when it was his name Sam called first. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam wrinkled his nose, looking like a confused five-year old.

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

Sam nodded jerkily.

"You sure? 'Cause I think you just left me for a minute."

Sam titled his head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean paused. "Did you see or hear anything?"

Sam blinked. "Like what?"

Dean shook his head. If Lucifer was not in the building, Dean certainly was not going to mention him. "Never mind. You back with me now?"

"Think so," Sam answered quietly. "Just..."

His voice trailed off as he suddenly swayed from where he sat on the side of the bed and pitched forward.

"Whoa, Sammy..." Dean warned, angling his body to block Sam's fall; hearing his brother's hiss of pain as the kid's tender forehead came to rest on Dean's shoulder. "Easy, huh?"

Sam nodded, his forehead continuing to rest in the hollow created by Dean's neck and shoulder.

"What was that about?" Norma demanded, rushing into the room with Bobby on her heels; both having witnessed Sam unexpectedly falling forward.

"He's okay. He just zoned out for a minute and then got dizzy. But he's fine," Dean replied calmly, having seen the expression on Sam's face seconds before; unable to describe how he knew that was Sam's "dizzy face" but knowing just the same.

"Zoned out?" Norma repeated. "What kind of zoned out?" she pressed suspiciously, knowing her patient's history of epilepsy and crossing to the bed to see Sam for herself.

"The kind you're thinking of," Dean confirmed, glancing down as Sam continued to lean against him.

Norma shook her head. "The anticonvulsant meds should still be in his system."

"Guess they don't work, after all," Dean replied dryly, unaffected because he was unsurprised. He had never expected medication to work on Sam's seizures, epilepsy or not.

Sam sighed shakily, turning his head and startling to find Norma so close.

Dean clenched his jaw – because while he liked Norma, she needed to back off – and exchanged glances with Bobby, seeing the older hunter nod.

"He'll be fine," Bobby soothed, assuming his role of wingman and cradling Norma's elbow as he led her away from the brothers.

"Are you sure?" Norma asked, twisting in Bobby's grasp to look over her shoulder at the boys.

"We're sure," Dean affirmed, squeezing the back of his brother's neck. "Right, Sammy?"

Sam nodded his agreement, slowly raising his arms to push against Dean's chest in an attempt to sit up, only to fall forward again.

"Hey. Stop," Dean quietly admonished, slightly increasing his grip on Sam's neck. "Give yourself a few minutes for it to pass, Superman."

Bobby quirked a smile at the throwback to their childhood; to Sam's love of Superman, and Dean's insistence that Batman was better.

Norma still seemed concerned. "Are you going to throw up, Sam?"

Dean cut his eyes at the nurse, hearing Sam swallow and knowing sometimes just the suggestion could make his brother actually do it when he was like this.

Norma tilted her head at the old brother's stare. "What? Sometimes patients vomit after seizures. And intense dizziness can also make patients vomit. And if Sam's going to vomit then – "

Sam made a strangled sound and swallowed again. "Dean..."

"You're okay, Sam. Don't listen to her," Dean soothed, rubbing his brother's back and glaring at the nurse.

_Stop_, Dean mouthed, his expression daring her to mention it again.

Apologetic embarrassment crossed Norma's face. "I'm sorry. I'm just..." She shook her head. "I'm just worried. I don't like those seizures or those dizzy spells."

Dean softened marginally – because neither did he – and glanced at the nurse as she stood beside him with her hands on her hips.

"The seizure was nothing," Dean assured. "He's had worse, believe me. And you said the dizzy spells were normal, that he would probably be dizzy for another few days."

"I know," Norma sighed, remembering what she had said earlier when they had first sat Sam up on the bed. "And that's true. He'll certainly have his Tilt-A-Whirl moments, and that's perfectly normal with recovering head injury patients. And, truthfully, it's also perfectly normal for seizure activity to be increased following a head injury, especially given Sam's history of epilepsy." She paused, staring at the brothers. "I just want him to be okay."

"M'okay," Sam replied unexpectedly, once again weakly pushing against Dean.

Dean shared an amused glance with Norma and Bobby at the slurred response before helping his brother sit up. "Sure you are," he agreed and smiled encouragingly as Sam blinked at him. "You with me?"

"Yeah," Sam quietly responded even as he closed his eyes.

Dean chuckled. "Hey. No sleeping just yet, Sammy," he chided, nudging his brother awake.

"That's normal, too," Norma informed, watching as Sam struggled to keep his eyes open. "He'll sleep a lot these next few weeks and will tire more easily than usual whenever he is awake."

Dean nodded and glanced at Bobby; both hunters taking mental notes.

"What else?" Bobby asked, crossing to the bed and reaching for Sam as Dean leaned on his crutch and began to maneuver the kid into the wheelchair.

"Well, let's see..."

Norma sighed, grasping the handles of the wheelchair and holding it steady as Sam was slowly and carefully lowered into its seat; marveling, not for the first time, how gentle Sam's brother and uncle always were with him.

"Cognitive difficulties are very common, such as trouble concentrating or paying attention to task – especially with distractions in the background. Also, some patients are not as aware of their surroundings as they used to be. And for some, problem solving is an issue. He may also react impulsively to situations without thinking them through first. And if you send him to the store, you better send a list with him. Short-term memory is tough for a while with these patients."

Dean stared at the nurse intently, absorbing all the information and already planning to test Sam's abilities later in the areas she mentioned.

Maybe watch television obnoxiously loud while Sam was trying to read or concentrate on something.

Or maybe see how Sam reacted when he did not expect Dean to be around the corner waiting for him; see if Sam would assume a defensive position or simply go down.

Or maybe send Sam to the store without a list and see what happened.

But above all, Dean would have to make sure any leads on potential hunts were kept under wraps. The last thing they needed was for Sam to react impulsively and head out on his own without thinking through the consequences.

Dean internally shuddered at what a disaster that would be – if Sam, in his stubborn, well-meaning way, struck out on a hunt by himself before he was fully recovered.

Dean shook his head, dispersing his worry about that for now and realizing the nurse was still talking.

"But I'm sure after these first few weeks, Sam's long-term effects will be minimal," Norma stated confidently, smiling at Dean and then down at her patient. "You've already surpassed all expectations, Sam. I'm still amazed by that cerebral contusion just being gone – like it was never even there – and the speed of your recovery over the past two days is just..."

Norma shook her head, feeling herself becoming emotional.

She smiled. "All I can say is that you must have one heck of a guardian angel."

Bobby sighed at the nurse's choice of words, glancing at Dean to gauge his reaction; knowing Dean was struggling with the loss of Cas more than he would admit...not that the oldest Winchester had much time to think about it these days with all that had happened.

Dean forced a strained smile even as something twisted in his chest.

Because Norma was right; they _did_ have one heck of a guardian angel.

But not anymore, and the reminder stung a little deeper every time it was brought up.

"Cas," Sam murmured unexpectedly, turning his head to find Dean.

Dean's eyes widened in surprise, his attention flickering to Bobby, and then narrowed as he focused back on Sam; uncertain if his brother was confused and was simply supplying a name in reaction to Norma's suspicion of a guardian angel, or if Sam was lucid and was offering an explanation for his astounding recovery.

"Cas?" Norma repeated and shook her head. "What's that?"

"Not what," Sam replied drowsily. "Who."

"Fine," Norma laughed. "Who is that?"

Dean held his breath and could tell Bobby was doing the same.

"Angel," Sam responded simply and shifted in the wheelchair.

"Angel?" Norma echoed, her expression indicating that she did not believe Sam; that she thought she was humoring a sleepy, confused patient. "You named your guardian angel?"

"No," Sam answered quietly, starting to shake his head but stopping when pain flared. "Already had a name. And a trench coat."

"He did?" Norma smiled – an angel with a name and a trench coat...how adorable was that? – and then glanced at Bobby and Dean, wondering why they did not look amused; why it seemed they were hanging on every word Sam said. "What else?" she asked curiously.

"Don't know," Sam admitted, his gaze wandering the room as he began to tire. "Different now."

"He's different now?" Dean clarified, ducking awkwardly to capture Sam's attention; somehow knowing Sam was not just talking but was reporting; was finally awake enough to tell them what he had been unable to tell them over the past few days.

Sam stared at him and nodded.

"Different how?" Bobby gently demanded, crouching to Sam's level. "Different vessel?"

Dean glanced at Bobby, trying to remember all of the different people who had come and gone in Sam's room over the past two days. The list was short, but still...was it possible?

Norma's gaze flickered between the three men in front of her; confused by the shift in topic and tone, as though Bobby and Dean actually believed Sam about this angel nonsense and were quizzing him on the specifics.

"Sam..." Dean called, knowing his brother was drifting and anxious for an answer before Sam was beyond giving them one. "Did Cas have a different vessel?"

"No." Sam sighed, his eyes staying closed longer between blinks. "No vessel. Didn't see. Felt."

Dean narrowed his eyes. What did that mean?

Bobby shook his head slightly.

There was a beat of silence before Norma sighed.

"That's right, Sam," she praised, once again touched by how incredibly sweet her patient was but uncomfortable with the conversation and eager to bring it to a conclusion. "Angels are not seen; they're just felt. And I'm so glad yours found you and healed you when he did, sweetie."

"Yeah," Sam agreed and closed his eyes.

Dean glanced at Bobby.

Bobby shrugged and stood.

This was definitely something they would discuss more later.

But Sam was exhausted, and it was past time to leave.

Dean sighed, straightening to his full height; thankful for the pain meds he had finally agreed to hours earlier when they had learned Sam was being discharged; and thankful he had also let Bobby convince him to take a shower and then sleep for a couple hours at the motel before they had headed back to the hospital to collect Sam.

"Well, guess we'll hit the road," Dean announced and smiled at Norma. "Thanks for everything."

"My pleasure," Norma replied genuinely, feeling foolish for suddenly wanting to cry. She barely knew these boys, had spent barely 48 hours with them, and yet she already missed them. "You have your pain meds and Sam's antibiotics?"

Dean nodded, patting his jacket pocket.

"Good," Norma praised. "Take yours as directed and make sure Sam finishes his. And make sure he keeps that hand wound clean and gets enough rest and doesn't push himself too hard too fast and just..." She paused, feeling foolish for rambling. "Just take good care of him," she told Dean, glancing at Sam.

Dean nodded again. "You don't have to worry about that," he assured her, propping his single crutch against the bed and sitting in his own wheelchair as they prepared to leave.

Norma smiled. "I know," she responded, continuing to blink against welling tears and looking over at Bobby. "And you take care of both of them."

Bobby touched the brim of his hat. "I'll do my best, m'am," he promised as he pushed a dozing Sam out of the room and glanced over his shoulder to make sure Dean was following behind.

Norma sighed shakily, watching them go and knowing they were in good hands; knowing all three would take care of each other.

* * *

><p>"So this is it, huh?" Dean asked, glancing around the interior of the RV once he and Sam were settled alongside each other on the pull-out bed.<p>

Bobby arched an eyebrow at Dean's tone. "Not to your liking, princess?"

Dean shrugged at the 70s-inspired decor, wincing as he shifted from where he sat beside a sleeping Sam. "Feels like the freakin' Partridge family."

Bobby shook his head. "They had a bus, Dean, not an RV."

Dean looked unimpressed by the distinction. "Same difference, if you ask me."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Didn't ask you," he replied gruffly, shaking his head and hoping Dean would be in a better mood once the new dose of pain meds kicked in and he got some solid sleep time.

Dean sighed, shifting again. "How far to Rufus's cabin?"

"Eighteen and half hours," Bobby answered, chuckling at Dean's scowl of displeasure and giving both brothers a once over before crossing to the front of the vehicle and settling into the driver's seat.

"Let the fun begin..." Dean muttered to himself as he wrapped his hand around Sam's wrist – a big brother habit not easily broken when little brother was still unwell – and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax as Bobby cranked the RV and started whistling a strangely familiar tune.

Dean cracked one eye open, listening as Bobby started singing under his breath.

"Hello world, here's a song that we're singin'...c'mon get happy..."

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	6. Chapter 6

"So, what d'ya think?" Dean asked, propped against the headboard as he sat beside Sam on the pull-out bed inside the RV.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder where he stood in front of the small stove warming up canned soup for the third day in a row. "'Bout what?"

"Sam," Dean answered predictably. "You think he's better?"

Bobby nodded at the clarification, considering the question as he cautiously tasted the broth to test its warmth; wondering if tonight would be the night that Dean finally complained about having soup _again_.

Because they had been traveling for the past three days, and Bobby knew he was not alone in being ready to eat something else, to do something else, and to be somewhere else.

Bobby had expected the first day – the day they had left the hospital – to be the hardest, but it had actually turned out to be the easiest. Both boys, exhausted and freshly medicated, had slept soundly side-by-side on the RV's pull-out bed.

It was not until the following morning when they had crossed into Montana that Dean had started to come around, finally waking up by the time Bobby had made his first of three planned stops; each stop being at the house of a trusted friend or hunter, allowing them a brief sanctuary for Bobby to park the RV and rest up before continuing to the next stop.

Except for his leg being understandably sore, Dean had been fine; had seemed rested and in a fairly good mood. He had roused Sam long enough to dose his brother with another round of antibiotics and to check the kid's overall condition.

But Sam had complained of not feeling well and had quickly fallen back asleep; had stayed that way until later that night when they had crossed into the middle of Montana and had arrived at their second stop.

Initially, Sam had seemed fine; had awoken on his own and had only mentioned being hot and having a dull headache when Dean had asked him how he had felt.

But as soon as Bobby had helped him sit up in preparation of removing the hoodie and making a bathroom visit, Sam's condition had deteriorated rapidly.

Bobby shook his head as he continued to stir the pot on the stove, remembering how Sam had paled almost immediately; how the kid had slammed his eyes shut against the assault of vertigo and would have probably hurled all over Bobby if Dean had not recognized the warning signs and had not been there to turn Sam's head, directing the vomit onto the plaid quilt that covered the pull-out bed instead of on the older hunter.

Bobby wrinkled his nose at the memory of how that was just the beginning.

They had quickly decided that Sam must have picked up a virus at the hospital as the youngest Winchester had proceeded to run a fever and then had puked for the next hour.

Already weak and exhausted, Sam had clung to Dean in his disoriented misery as Dean had alternated between offering quiet reassurances and nonverbal comfort.

Bobby had excused himself from the RV, giving the brothers their privacy, and had gone to the house of where they had stopped; had laundered the quilt while listening to unsolicited advice on how to help a sick kid.

Bobby rolled his eyes as he remembered how the hunter – a man he had known as long as Rufus – had pried more than Bobby had liked about what had happened to Sam to make him so sick and then had explained in minute detail the steps of making some anti-nausea concoction.

But nothing had seemed to work for Sam that night.

Although his dizziness had decreased, Sam had commented that his headache had become worse – a result of the vomiting – and Bobby could still see the flash of panic in Dean's eyes.

That second night had seemed to last forever, as nights often do when you are sitting up with the sick.

And the dawn of the third day – today – had brought little change.

After half an hour of discussion, Bobby and Dean had decided to continue their trip; more eager than ever to reach their destination of Whitefish, Montana, and to get settled into the refuge of Rufus's cabin.

Bobby had driven over the speed limit – or as over the limit as the RV would go – for most of the day, alternately listening to Sam's heaving and Dean's consoling; receiving updates from Dean whenever Sam would finally doze off; and then repeating the whole cycle again.

Sam's fever had continued to marginally increase throughout the morning, peaking around midafternoon. But by the time they had reached Shelby, Montana – their third stop, about three hours away from Whitefish – it seemed Sam had finally turned the proverbial corner; his fever breaking, which allowed him to sleep and truly rest, as he was doing now stretched out beside Dean.

"Bobby?" Dean prompted.

Bobby blinked, his thoughts scattering.

"Do you think Sam is better?" Dean asked again, thinking that Sam probably was but wanting a second opinion; tired and achy himself, his leg throbbing since he had skipped his pain meds the past couple days in the midst of taking care of Sam.

Bobby sighed, satisfied the soup was warm enough, and switched off the front burner of the stove. "I'm sure Sam is fine," he soothed, grabbing a bowl from the small cabinet overhead. "He hasn't thrown up in the past two hours, so that's progress."

"Yeah," Dean agreed quietly, glancing at his brother as Sam shifted in his sleep; his attention snagged by a glimpse of the wound still marring Sam's left hand. "But if he throws up anymore, he'll get dehydrated. He's already dangerously close."

"I know." Bobby ladled soup into the bowl. "But if that happens, we'll handle that, too."

Dean nodded, having no doubts Bobby could secure an IV if it came to that.

"His fever still down?" Bobby asked, setting the bowl on the counter.

Dean swept his hand under Sam's bangs; relieved to feel cool, dry skin. "Yeah."

"See? That's a good sign," Bobby encouraged, reaching for another bowl in the cabinet.

Dean nodded. "You still think it was just a virus?"

"Probably," Bobby replied, filling the second bowl with soup and then setting it on the counter as well. "Sixty-nine percent of patients will contract a gastrointestinal virus 24 to 48 hours after being discharged from the hospital."

Dean snorted. "How the hell do you know that?"

"I read a lot," Bobby explained dryly, searching the drawer by the stove for two spoons. "And judging by Sam's symptoms, I'd say he had the norovirus."

"Norovirus?" Dean repeated, carefully lifting Sam's left hand; mindful not to wake his brother as he inspected the puckered, pink skin of the healing wound. "Is that related to his head injury?"

"No." Bobby chuckled, finding the spoons and crossing the four steps to the bed. "It's _noro_virus, not _neuro_virus." He nodded at Sam's hand cradled in Dean's palm. "How's that looking?"

"Good," Dean replied, placing Sam's hand back on the mattress.

Bobby nodded. "Good."

He paused, watching as Dean's worried gaze swept over Sam.

"The rest of him should be good, too, after fluids and a few weeks' rest," Bobby assured. "We'll just have to watch him since his body had already been through a lot prior to this. And we'll have to hope we don't get the virus now, since it can be highly contagious."

Dean shrugged, accepting the bowl Bobby handed to him. "I'd rather have it than Sam."

"I know," Bobby answered, because that was always how it worked with Dean; Dean would rather suffer anything as long as it spared Sam.

Dean blew on his soup as Bobby sat in the chair beside the bed and did the same.

A few seconds passed, both hunters eating in companionable silence while watching over their youngest.

"What d'ya think about Cas?"

Bobby glanced at Dean over his utensil handle as he ate a few more spoonfuls of soup.

He had wondered how long it would take to come back around to this topic and guessed he had Sam's illness to thank – if you could say that – for the delay.

Bobby cleared his throat. "What about him?"

"What Sam said..." Dean scraped his spoon across the bottom of his bowl, collecting the remnants of soup. "You think Cas could really be..." He slurped the broth. "I don't know...out there?"

Bobby watched as Dean made a vague motion in the air with his spoon. "Maybe," he conceded. "Angels are, at their core, spiritual beings. And spiritual beings don't need a vessel to exist; the vessel is for our benefit – a kind of 'seeing is believing' effect."

Dean nodded, considering Bobby's words. "So, it's possible Cas could have somehow escaped his vessel before the leviathans dissolved it into the water?"

"Well..." Bobby stood, collecting Dean's empty bowl and stacking it on top of his own. "In our line of work, anything is possible," he reminded, placing the bowls in the sink along with the pot from the stove and then reaching in the mini fridge for two bottles of water.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, accepting the water and glancing down at Sam as his brother continued to sleep beside him. "Do you think Cas healed Sam's head injury?"

Bobby smiled. "Like I said..." He took a few long sips from his water bottle. "Anything is possible."

Dean nodded; remembering Cas's plea for forgiveness back at that lab before the leviathans had taken over his vessel.

_I feel regret, about you and what I did to Sam. If there was time, if I was strong enough I'd...I'd fix him now. _

But there had not been time, and Cas had not been strong enough.

Not then.

But now?

Dean glanced down at Sam again, reminded of Norma's words – _I'm still amazed by that cerebral contusion just being gone...like it was never even there_ – as Cas's final promise echoed in his mind – _I'll find a way to redeem myself to you...I mean it, Dean _– followed by Sam's words –_ didn't see...felt._

Was it possible?

Possible that Cas had somehow escaped death; was somehow still alive and had made good on his promise; had found a way to save Sam's life, to fix him – or at least the injured part he could fix – in an attempt to redeem himself to Dean?

Dean slowly nodded, knowing that Bobby was right; realizing what he had known all along – that anything was possible.

And if Dean believed anything, he believed the possibility of Cas still being out there; still looking out for them in some way; still being their guardian angel despite everything.

Dean smiled, a strange sense of peace flooding his chest where a knot of sadness, anger, and regret had been lodged since Cas had disappeared beneath the water and his empty trench coat had washed ashore.

Bobby watched as Dean, ever the hunter, sorted the clues to this particular puzzle. "You good?" he asked when he saw the answer click into place.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said honestly, holding the older hunter's gaze.

Bobby returned the nod. "Good," he replied, patting Dean's shoulder as he crossed to the front of the RV.

Dean glanced at Sam as the RV's engine noisily sputtered to life and then settled back against the headboard for the three remaining hours of their trip; closing his eyes and wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist; feeling thankful, maybe even _blessed_.

Dean quirked a smile as he imagined Cas's reaction if the angel could hear Dean use that word and actually mean it.

The RV rocked roughly as it sunk into a pothole.

"Sorry..." Bobby called distractedly, steering the vehicle back to smooth pavement.

Dean sighed, his eyes still closed; remembering Cas looking over his shoulder seconds before purgatory opened.

_I'm sorry, Dean. _

"I know," Dean whispered, for whatever it was worth. "Me, too," he added, hoping if Cas was indeed out there, the angel could still hear him.

Sam sighed sleepily in response to Dean's quiet voice and shifted on the bed, causing Dean to open his eyes.

"S'okay, Sammy..." Dean murmured, squeezing his brother's wrist and hoping Cas knew his apology – offered in words but demonstrated in what he did for Sam – was accepted; that redemption was granted; and that maybe Dean finally believed what their mom had told him all those years ago about angels watching over him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	7. Chapter 7

"Josephina is such a conniving bitch!" Dean proclaimed vehemently, gripping the remote as he sat on the couch four days later at Rufus's cabin; his casted leg stretched out in front of him, propped on a pillow-cushioned chair.

Sam sat beside him, asleep – as he often was these days – and covered with a blanket; leaning against Dean's arm as he had been for the past hour since he had listed sideways on the couch and had landed against Dean's shoulder.

"You're tellin' me," Bobby agreed, shaking his head in disgust as he stood beside the couch with his arms crossed over his chest and stared at the small television across the room. "Do you think the spoilers are true?"

Dean jerked his attention to the older hunter. "What spoilers?" he demanded, glancing back at Sam as his brother shifted against him.

"That Ricardo's gonna find out and kill himself over this," Bobby replied as the end credits began scrolling across the screen.

"He better not!" Dean growled heatedly, glaring at the television. "Dude, if that happens, I'm gonna be so pissed!"

"Well, you better get ready for it..." Bobby advised, crossing to the door. "The rumors are all over the Internet. The fandom says..."

"Screw the fandom!" Dean spat, clicking off the television and resisting the urge to throw the remote in his frustration. "What the hell do they know?" he ranted, glancing again at Sam as his brother shifted once more; a possible sign the kid was waking up, which would be good since Dean's arm had gone numb half an hour ago from the way Sam was leaning on his shoulder.

Bobby shrugged, collecting the RV's keys from the table beside the door. "Just sayin'."

Dean shook his head, scowling at the blank television screen. "I can't believe I let you get me hooked on this crap."

Bobby glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. "If it's crap, stop watching."

"I can't!" Dean confessed, looking at Bobby as though the older hunter had lost his mind. "Not now. Not when Ricardo might kill himself all because of that bitch!"

Bobby chuckled again. Who would have ever believed Dean Winchester would become so emotionally involved in a telenovela?

"Alright, fangirl. Calm down," Bobby soothed, his hand on the doorknob as he prepared to leave. "It's just a TV show."

"Yeah, I know. But, dude..." Dean sighed and shook his head, refocusing his attention on Bobby and on the situation at hand. "So...guess we'll see you in a week?"

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe more, maybe less. Just depends on how long it takes me to return this RV, pick up the Impala, and get back here without being followed."

Dean nodded and then quirked a smile when Sam sighed noisily beside him; thankful Sam was simply dreaming and not something worse.

Bobby opened the door but did not walk through, hesitating. "You sure you're okay to take care of him by yourself?"

Dean made a dismissive sound; half offended, half amused. "I've been taking care of him by myself since..."

Dean's voice trailed off, knowing their mom had been Sam's primary caretaker for the first six months of his brother's life but unable to truly remember that; to remember a time when he had not been solely responsible for Sam.

Dean shook his head. "Since forever," he finished, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and pride; knowing if Sam was awake, he would insist – _wrongly_ – that he no longer needed taking care of.

Bobby sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"So, go. We'll be fine."

Bobby nodded. "I've stocked everything you might need while I'm gone. And, if Sam gets sick again, there's – "

"He won't get sick again," Dean assured, glancing at his brother. "Whatever virus he had is long gone."

And Dean fervently hoped that was true.

Sam had not thrown up since that final day in the RV – that day they had finally arrived at the cabin – and although he was still not eating or drinking enough to suit Dean, Dean knew from experience that was just part of Sam's recovery and not a sign that his brother still felt sick.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Just make sure he gets more fluids and rest. And that he finishes his antibiotic. And also keep a check on his hand, just to make sure it's still healing well. And if he seizes while I'm gone, just – "

"Bobby!" Dean called, loud enough to interrupt the older hunter's worry-filled rambling without waking Sam.

Bobby blinked. "What?"

"You act like I don't know the kid," Dean accused, shaking his head; unsure of how to react to Bobby in all-out mother-hen mode.

"Well, of course you do," Bobby scoffed. "But you've been out of it for the past few days, so I was just reminding you."

"First of all, I was only 'out of it' for one day," Dean corrected. "And that was only because you made me take those heavy-duty painkillers."

Bobby shrugged. "Helped, didn't they?"

Dean glared. "Not the point. You know I hate morphine."

Bobby chuckled. "Yeah, but it's sure entertaining for the rest of us. Besides, that's what you needed after the trip out here, so I ain't sorry."

"Anyway..." Dean continued, maintaining his glare. "I've been back in the game for three days, so I think I'm up-to-date on everything Sam-related."

"Fine," Bobby allowed and then paused. "And if he has a grand mal?"

Dean resisted the urge to flinch at that word. He was terrified of ever having to watch Sam endure a grand mal again and unnerved more than he would admit about the amount of times Sam zoned out when he was awake these days – even if pressing the hand wound had proven effective more than once in ending the seizure activity and bringing Sam back to reality.

Dean glanced at Sam still asleep on his shoulder and shook his head. "He hasn't had a grand mal since the ambulance ride to Sioux Falls General."

"But if he does?" Bobby pressed, not wanting to upset Dean but needing to know that Dean had at least thought about it, because Bobby certainly had.

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling somewhat attacked; as though Bobby doubted his ability to take care of Sam. "I'll handle it, Bobby."

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "By yourself with your leg in a cast and only a make-do crutch to help?"

Dean nodded, having already thought about that scenario, and glanced at the tree branch propped in the corner; remembering how Bobby had stripped its leaves and smaller branches to make a workable crutch substitute.

"Before we had you, I had to deal with worse things with less help," Dean commented and then paused, suddenly realizing what was really going on here; softening as he remembered that Bobby had been through a lot and had lost a lot over the past couple of weeks, too.

And like their dad, Bobby was being tough on him now because he wanted to make sure Dean was prepared to take care of himself and his brother.

Bobby continued to linger uncertainly in the doorway.

"We'll be fine, Bobby," Dean assured, strangely warmed and strengthened by the reminder that the older hunter loved them and was just worried about them; that Bobby did not want to lose them along with everything else that had already been lost...just like their dad.

"And if something happens?" Bobby challenged, watching as Sam suddenly pushed the blanket away in his sleep.

"If something happens while you're gone, I'll deal with it," Dean answered confidently, snagging the edge of the blanket before it slid to the floor and draping it back across his brother. "You know I would ask you to stay if I didn't think I could handle this. I wouldn't put Sam at risk like that."

Bobby nodded, appreciating Dean's honesty and knowing he was being ridiculous about this.

Because Dean would undoubtedly take care of Sam in his absence; and in his own way and as much as he was able, Sam would take care of Dean.

But even still, they were his boys, and leaving them alone and unguarded for the better part of a week when they were both less than 100% bothered Bobby more than he expected.

Dean shifted on the couch, watching Bobby's internal struggle while tolerantly allowing Sam to wallow on his shoulder as his brother resituated himself in his sleep.

A few minutes later, Bobby sighed harshly, his decision made. "Well, daylight's burnin'," he commented, stepping out onto the porch before he could change his mind. "You watch yourself, Dean," he ordered, pointing directly at the oldest Winchester.

Dean nodded, Bobby's tone and gesture reminding him even more of their dad. "You, too," he returned.

"I will," Bobby assured, his attention flickering to Sam. "And you watch your brother."

Dean quirked a smile at another classic John Winchester line and glanced at Sam as the kid continued to lean against his arm. "Watch him do what? Sleep?"

Bobby chuckled. "For your sake, I hope that's all he does while I'm gone."

Dean nodded his agreement, knowing Sam needed to rest in order to fully recover and preferring an embarrassingly clingy, sleeping brother to no brother at all.

Dean swallowed, not allowing himself to think about what might have happened, how things might have turned out differently; thankful for what he still believed was Cas's healing touch; the angel's signature two fingers to the forehead...and done; instantly healed.

_Like it was never even there._

Dean smiled, freshly warmed by gratitude and fondness for his old friend; their guardian angel.

"Well..." Bobby sighed, scattering Dean's thoughts. "Call if you need me," he reminded. "Otherwise, I'll be in touch."

Dean nodded again, watching the door shut and listening to Bobby cross the porch and then descend the steps; hearing the RV's driver's side door creak open before its engine coughed to life.

Seconds later, Dean startled when his cell phone rang.

"Miss us already?" he answered, seeing Bobby's name on the caller display and glancing at Sam as his brother slept on.

"No, ya idjit," Bobby responded gruffly. "I forgot to tell ya to take notes about what happens between Josephina and Ricardo. I'm gonna want to know when I get back."

Dean chuckled. "Who's the fangirl now?"

"Shut up," Bobby retorted, ending the call.

Dean laughed, closing the phone and feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

And while he knew things were still complicated – knew they would still face challenges and setbacks and heartache along the way – Dean felt a sense of peace because he knew they would face it all together; him and Sam against the world, with Bobby at their side and Cas overhead...or at least "out there" somewhere.

Dean smiled, shifting from where he sat on the couch; easing his arm out from under Sam and rolling his eyes when his little brother simply snuggled closer to his side.

"Ah, Sammy," Dean sighed, affection in his tone. "The things I do for you, huh?"

Sam's only response was a sleepy, contented sigh.

Dean shook his head fondly and grabbed the remote before draping his arm protectively over his brother; surprisingly content himself in his boring routine of watching daytime television while Sam slept beside him; knowing in a few weeks, all would be back to normal – complete with stressful hunts and non-clingy little brothers.

Dean snorted, knowing Sam would be horrified to learn how cuddly he had been over the past week; a combination of medication, exhaustion, and confusion never failing to cause Sam's snuggly tendencies to resurface, just like when he was a kid.

And while it was Dean's duty as a big brother to make sure Sam not only knew about the temporary reemergence of those tendencies but to also tease his brother mercilessly about them once Sam was fully recovered – for now...this arrangement was just fine with Dean.

Not that he would ever admit that.

Dean smiled to himself, clicking on the television with the remote before glancing at his brother and smoothing the blanket over Sam's shoulder as the kid continued to sleep soundly against him.

"Alright, Sammy..." he said conversationally, as though his brother was awake to hear him. "What d'ya say we watch a little _Days Of Our Lives..._"

* * *

><p><em><strong>FIN<strong>_


End file.
